


Sold

by DwaejiTokki



Category: Merlin - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Torture, Trauma, bandits, slave - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 20:49:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4579548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DwaejiTokki/pseuds/DwaejiTokki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gwaine and Merlin have run into trouble. That is, they've been captured by slave traders. While Arthur and company search, Merlin and Gwaine find new work for a nobleman in Lot's kingdom. Gwaine, in return for Merlin's safety, promises to behave...But what happens if he slips?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

Chapter 1

"We've lost the trail," Arthur announced, standing and brushing himself off from where he had been kneeling in the leaves. "We'll have to split up."

The knights around him dismounted their horses and tethered them to a low-hanging, sturdy branch nearby. Merlin did as well, albeit sullenly, knowing that he would be expected to help or to watch after their  belongings. The knife Arthur had made him carry hung heavily from his belt. It was a strange weight, and Merlin didn't exactly know how to use it, but if it kept his master happy he would wear it, he supposed.

"Under no circumstance should you engage the bandits in any way," Arthur was saying in his most prattish tone. "If you find the trail, return here at once. If nothing is found within  half a mark, return here. Do not follow them. Do not reveal your presence."

"Yes, Sire," came the chorus of voices.

"Sirs Percival and Elyan," Arthur pointed east, and they went. "Sir Leon, with me to the north. Sirs Lancelot and -"

"I'll take Merlin," Gwaine interrupted, slinging a heavy arm over the manservant's shoulders. Merlin grinned at Arthur's petulant expression. 

"The bandits will hear him coming a league away," Arthur  scowled. "Merlin will stay here and tend to the horses. As I was saying -"

Merlin didn't hear the rest, as Gwaine was discreetly pulling him backward, careful to make no noise. The manservant grinned when he realized that they were disobeying Arthur. The king had been rather rude recently,  although Merlin knew it was due to stress. All the same, Merlin wanted to go somewhere instead of looking after the blasted horses as he had been doing every day, and  Gwaine was always  \-  well, usually - a fun chap to be around. So he snuck away with his friend,  spinning round and  breaking into a run when Arthur turned and spotted them.

"Hey!" Arthur barked.

Gwaine and Merlin laughed, but did not slow down. 

"I'm sick of watching the bloody horses!" Merlin called over his shoulder. "Prat!"

Just in that brief moment, Merlin had had more fun than he'd had in all five days of the trip combined. They'd been tracking a particularly nasty strain of bandits that had been caught within Camelot's borders. Arthur, as per usual, wanted to go out and take care of it himself, taking his most trusted knights with him. And Merlin, of course.

After making sure that they had not been followed, the two mischief-makers slowed to a walk. It was only then that they remembered to look out for the bandits' trail, and  cast  their eyes  downwards. Nothing thus far but their own  foot steps.

"Princess will get over it," Gwaine chuckled,  sweeping  a hand through his shaggy hair.

Merlin's eyes twinkled merrily.  "I'll probably have to muck out  every stable in the kingdom after  a month  in the stocks," he said  with a  good-natured grimace.

Gwaine laughed, but just as suddenly sobered and held up a silencing finger. Merlin turned serious as well and followed the knight's gaze. There was a broken branch hanging a ways ahead of them, and a bit farther on they could see the beginnings of a new trail. They grinned and crept forward unanimously.  They'd follow it a bit just to be sure it was not some unsuspecting camp of travelers or Druids, and then go back to fetch the others. 

Well, that had been the  unspoken  plan.

What had really happened was that the two of them had crept forward, trying to spot the encampment. In doing so,  Merlin  had tripped a wire, which in turn tripped a bell, which rent the air. Merlin and  Gwaine both froze, wide-eyed.

Nothing happened.

Merlin turned his head to grin at Gwaine - and an arrow that would have killed him  whistled  past and struck, shaft quivering,  into the tree behind him.

"Get down!" Gwaine hissed, shoving Merlin to one side and drawing his sword with the other. Not that a sword would do much against arrows, but it was a matter of principle.

Merlin scrambled backward to hide. He wasn't leaving Gwaine behind, far from it. He just couldn't allow anyone to see him use his magic. A bandit leapt out, brandishing his own blade, and swung it at Gwaine, who easily parried it. The knight whirled and blocked another attack from behind, hooking his ankle around the first attacker's foot and sending him sprawling back into another man. Two more appeared from the trees, one of whom  tripped over his own toes and knocked himself out.  Gwaine took out the other one. 

The warlock was so concentrated on helping his friend that he did not hear the approaching men behind him. A heavy boot drove itself into his ribs, and all of his air escaped his lungs with a whoosh. Merlin coughed, struggling to breathe, and curled into himself. But he was hauled to his feet by rough hands and dragged out of his hiding place. He registered the pull at his waist that meant his knife had been drawn from its sheath, but it was not in his hand.

Cold steel pressed against his throat.

"Stop right there, or this one gets it!" said a gruff voice.

Gwaine wheeled around, eyes instantly locking on Merlin's apologetic  wince . Without waiting for orders, the knight tossed his sword to one side and raised his hands in surrender, eyes shifting to glare at the man holding the knife to Merlin's neck. 

"A knight of Camelot, are you?" sneered the man. "I'm sure there's lots of people willing to pay lots for you, my friend."

Gwaine smirked distastefully. "Lots for me, yes, my friend," he said sardonically. "But not for him. Release him."

The man's only move was to signal for Gwaine to be restrained. The men who weren't lying dead or unconscious at the knight's feet stepped forward with a mysteriously procured length of rope. Though Gwaine stiffened, he did not resist, nor did he break eye contact with the leader. His  cape, armor, and knife were quickly removed (even his hidden boot knife was taken). Then his arms were pulled in front of him and bound before the rope was wrapped around his upper body.

After a moment, Gwaine said casually, "So what's a lot of bandits like you doing running around Camelot?"

The men guffawed, and Merlin winced as his captive's hand slipped a bit, piercing his skin. "Bandits?" the leader repeated, adjusting the knife back to its original position. Gwaine's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "We're not no lowly bandits, my friend. More like slave traders."

"Ah," Gwaine said dryly. "Much more respectable than bandits, then."

At last the slave traders had bound Gwaine tightly and inescapably. All but one retreated, leaving him gripping Gwaine's shoulder. Not that  Gwaine would run; he had no use of his hands, and thus could not fight effectively. And besides that, Merlin was still in danger. The blade was removed from Merlin's throat, much to the relief of both, though the man holding the warlock in place did not release him until more rope was retrieved. Merlin scowled, but did not resist.

A sharp prod in the back moved Merlin forward, and when he reached the point at which Gwaine stood they began to walk side by side, with the slavers surrounding them in case they decided to run. Merlin's mind was working frantically, trying to assemble some sort of plan that would result in their freedom, but not his discovery. He was hard-pressed to find one.

After some maneuvering through the thick trees, they came  to  the camp. It was shoddy at best - the fire was low due to being built over wet leaves, the horse wasn't  tethered where  it  might graze or drink (and looked neglected), and mounds of bedrolls were tossed wherever they  lay. A cage was on the other side of the clearing, although it was empty. Anti-magic runes were clearly scratched into  the thick iron bars, and even from his distance Merlin could feel it dampening his abilities. 

To his immense relief, Gwaine and Merlin were led to a tree on the other side of the encampment and restrained against  it. This Merlin could work with. When everyone went to sleep, Merlin could magically loosen the ropes and pretend that he had worked himself out of them. Then he would untie Gwaine, and they would steal away into the darkness and get back to Arthur and the others. 

Gwaine had been thus far uncharacteristically quiet, and Merlin glanced at him. The knight was stony-faced and glaring daggers at the slavers, particularly the ones closer to Merlin. The warlock almost smiled fondly. Almost.

Merlin discreetly tested his ropes. He was none too pleased to discover that there was little leeway. Hopefully Gwaine would not question it when he managed to free himself. Even if he did, Merlin was sure he could pass it off to luck or something of the like. If Gwaine found out about his magic, Merlin was sure he'd take it in stride, but he didn't want to take the chance, especially with Gwaine's big mouth and his tendency to exaggerate.

The slavers left them alone, chortling jovially and boasting about their great catch. A knight of Camelot would fetch a high price, as would his belongings, which would likely be sold separately or kept as trophies. Gwaine rolled his eyes at the thought. They landed on Merlin, who was squirming in his bonds.

"You all right, mate?" he asked softly.

Merlin shot him a quick grin. "Yeah, I am. It might take me a bit, but I think I can loosen these enough to get out of them." That said, he continued to wriggle. Gwaine watched him doubtfully. If Merlin's ropes were as tight as his own, they would never get out. He said nothing, however, and turned to study his newest friends. 

They were all typical slavers: hygienically deteriorated, dirty-mouthed, rude, utter fools. The worst kind of men in existence. And he'd led dear Merlin right into their hands. Merlin was Gwaine's responsibility from the moment he'd disobeyed Arthur, which he had regretted  when he'd seen the knife held to his friend's throat. Perhaps sometimes the princess did know best.  Gwaine supposed that he could take the chance, grab a sword when they were distracted and slaughter them all, but there was still Merlin's safety to take into account. He doubted Merlin would run off and leave him, whether it was to get help or not. No, Gwaine's best bet was to keep Merlin  close.

Three of the slavers had turned back to them. The scraggliest-looking one was holding  an  iron poker. The red end looked quite menacing. As they approached,  Gwaine sighed inwardly. No doubt they were about to torture him for information about Camelot, perhaps something about getting in and out undetected, the best time of day to snatch unfortunate people, that sort of thing. 

Merlin tensed beside him.

Gwaine wanted to reassure him that they were  only going to go after him, since he was a knight and all, but then he stopped short. The three men weren't approaching with a poker. It was a brand - and a very strange-looking one at that. 

The glowing metal hurt to look at, but Gwaine  looked anyway, trying to make out the symbol. Was it a mark of slavery? A crest? It didn't seem like it to Gwaine; he'd never seen anything like it. The metal was shaped almost like a Druidic symbol, but with five prongs. Within the hollow legs of the symbol were crisscrossing segments that made what looked to be more symbols. Despite its intricacy it was no larger than his palm.

"What's that, then?" Gwaine asked cheerily as they came nearer. He noticed that Merlin was staring darkly at the instrument. There was a spark in his eyes that the knight couldn't quite place - it wasn't curiosity or fear...It was more like -  resigned understanding. Perhaps he'd seen the symbol before. 

"Just a little something to make sure you behave good and proper," the slaver with the brand smiled sickly. 

"I think I can behave good and proper without that little something," Gwaine replied smoothly. "As you can see," he tugged at his ropes, "this little something works just as well, if not better."

The men only laughed. Two knelt beside Gwaine, whose face had hardened slightly, and worked the rope upward a bit so that they could expose his belly. This was going to hurt.

Gwaine only had a split second of warning before the red hot metal seared into his sensitive skin. His body went rigid, and he clenched his teeth to bite back a scream. A short growl escaped his throat, but nothing more. He glared hatefully at the slaver with the iron. Once the brand was pulled away, his body relaxed, but only just. The pain, as was wont with burns to do, continued relentlessly. 

"Thanks, mate," he said in a strained voice. "Always love a good gift. Cherish it always."

"Yes, you will," the  slaver agreed, admiring the blistering red skin. Then he jerked his head toward Merlin, who was looking at him murderously. Gwaine's façade immediately fell.

"Oi, leave him be," he said. "He's just a servant. Can't do no harm."

"Can't take a chance, now can we?" was his reply.

Merlin said nothing. He did not resist, nor did he give them the satisfaction of seeing his fear. He didn't recognize the symbol of the brand, but he recognized the words inside of it. They were a magic - binding spell.  There was nothing he could do, short of revealing himself. Which, of course, he was preparing himself to do. 

His magic was bubbling up under his skin, ready to attack. He'd knock away his adversaries, free himself and Gwaine, and run. Then he'd take Gwaine aside and implore him to keep his secret, and explain everything. He was sure the knight would understand, he had to. Lancelot could back him up. It was just something Merlin would have to deal with after the ordeal was finished. 

Just as he was about to let  his  magic fly, the man beside him  fell over with a surprised  yelp. This distracted the men holding Merlin still and Merlin himself, who looked over to see that  Gwaine had kicked the slaver's  leg  out from underneath him. But it wasn't enough to deter to the one with the brand. 

Blinding pain blossomed from above Merlin's navel, shooting daggers throughout his entire body. He hadn't had the chance to use his magic - he was too late. It was blocked off. He could feel his magic recoiling in pain, retreating to the deepest recesses of his being, trying to escape  it. Merlin was vaguely aware of screaming - his screams? And  Gwaine's, he could hear the knight hurling insults and threats. 

The agony suddenly disappeared, and Merlin slumped as much as his bonds would allow, which wasn't much. But just as quickly as it had receded,  the pain came back with a vengeance. Merlin groaned, trying to curl into himself but unable to do so. His breaths came in harsh pants. The hurt from this burn was worse than the one he'd received in his fight with Nimueh \- at  least her fire hadn't affected his magic.

After a moment of trying to compose himself, Merlin became aware of a low, frantic voice beside him. The haze in his mind lifted a bit, and he recognized it as Gwaine's. 

"...all right, Merlin, I promise. I'll get us out of this, I just need to get a sword. Don't worry, I'll fix this, my friend. I'll fix it. Just breathe, Merlin. Don't worry. I'll get us out of this."

The repetitive  rambling continued, and Merlin wondered who  Gwaine was trying to comfort. Merlin swallowed dryly and took a deep breath, then sat up a bit straighter to relieve the pressure on his wound. He turned and looked at Gwaine, who shut his mouth instantly, looking like a kicked puppy.

"You okay?" Merlin asked hoarsely, brow furrowed in concentration. If he could focus on things other than his throbbing, burning skin and his cowardly magic, then perhaps he could forget it and feel a bit better. Assessing his friend's well-being seemed like a good way of doing so.

Gwaine stared at him for a long moment. "Yeah," he said at last. "I'm fine, mate. More worried about you. But don't worry, I'll figure a way out of this. Just you wait, my friend.  Princess  and the others should be looking for us by now, too. Tell you what, when we get back the first round's on me!"

Merlin nodded understandingly, though when he spoke it became apparent he hadn't heard a word of what the knight had said. "If we had some alder bark I could treat these burns...Or maybe some barley seeds and eggs, those would be better because it would lessen the pain. No, daffodil roots would be easier to find, they're abundant this time of year." 

Gwaine exhaled slowly. "Right," he said, looking a little disturbed and guilty. 

"Oi!" hissed a sudden voice. Gwaine coolly directed his attention to the  slaver standing a few meters away. "No talking."

The knight refrained from replying lest it anger  him. He had no qualm about his own well-being; he often found himself in worse situations and got away unscathed. He was definitely worried about Merlin, though. Merlin was so resilient when it came to bad happenings, despite all outward appearances - or, more often than not, disappearances. Gwaine  knew  his slighter friend was more than he seemed, and no doubt stronger than he tended to portray himself. But now didn't seem to be one of those times.

He immediately suspected that it had to do with the burn. Yes, his burned as though the fire was still touching it, but that was to be expected. Gwaine was sure Merlin's felt something like that, too. Even so, Merlin was a resilient lad, and usually undeterred by pain. Gwaine knew this because Merlin often tried to hide any  wounds  he had, and he did a good job of it. Only  Gwaine was more perceptive than most gave him credit for.

Gwaine thought of the strange branding symbol. Sinister, certainly. His brow furrowed, and he cast Merlin yet another sidelong look. His dark lashes were fluttering, though he still appeared to be conscious. His bound arms were worrying at the ropes, doing  no  good.

The guards had returned to more or less ignoring their new captives. Several were arguing over who would get first pick of  Gwaine's armor and sword, and whether anything useful could be made with his  red cloak. 

Gwaine leaned in closer to Merlin to whisper lowly, "Now might be a good time to use some of that magic, mate."

Merlin balked, turning to the knight so fast that he might have given himself whiplash. "Wh-What?!" he hissed, suddenly very much awake and lucid. His cerulean eyes shot furtively toward the raucous slavers.

Gwaine looked back at him innocently. "Well, you want to escape, don't you? Listen, you get us out of here, and the first round's on me." 

Several emotions flashed through the younger man's eyes, making Gwaine feel a bit guilty. He hadn't meant to reveal he'd known all along in this manner, as he completely understood Merlin's reasons for secrecy. Sure, it hurt that Merlin didn't  tell him, even after he'd confessed his noble blood, but he understood. Really, he did understand the fear that widened Merlin's eyes, the uncertainty and devastation that followed quickly after. Those were  replaced by a more subdued look of fear and caution.

"I-I don't have magic," he stuttered, obviously lying.

Well, at least he was stubborn as always.

But Gwaine knew he needed to play his cards right if he wanted Merlin to trust him.  Gwaine  trusted Merlin with his life. He sighed dramatically and leaned his head back against the tree. "That's a shame. Suppose we'll be sold to some noble. And most nobles don't much appreciate their slaves breaking into their mead stores, I'll  tell  you that now, my friend."  Gwaine shifted, inadvertently tugging the ropes behind him. Of course they gave no leeway.

"Perhaps if you'd spent less time drinking and more time escaping," Merlin retorted. Gwaine recognized his tactic. It was the one he used when conversations turned to uncomfortable topics, and the knight had to admit that Merlin was very good at it. But not tonight.

Gwaine gave his friend a sly look. "I may be  Strength, but I'm not Percival, mate."

"Huh?"

"The wee man at the bridge," Gwaine said. "When we went to help Arthur on his Fisher King quest, yeah? He turned my sword into a flower. I'm glad it turned back into a sword once we crossed the bridge. Not sure how much damage a few petals would have done against a wyvern. Unless wyverns are allergic to flowers?" 

Merlin stared at him for a long moment, heart pounding ferociously in his chest, and all thoughts for his pain pushed to  the back of his mind. Of course he remembered that quest. But knights were generally thick-headed, and of course Arthur had probably completely forgotten any relation to magic at all, and he'd frankly expected  Gwaine to, as well. Apparently not. _Courage, Strength, and Magic_. Merlin wanted to shrivel up and die. No one was supposed to know, least of all Gwaine and his big mouth! "You," Merlin had to swallow, allowing a pregnant pause in which Gwaine didn't look at him. The knight appeared to still be contemplating the wyvern-allergy situation. "You didn't really believe him, did you?"

Gwaine was drawn from his thoughts and met Merlin's gaze. "Why wouldn't I?"

"I don't have magic."

"Ah, I see," Gwaine nodded, eyes crinkling good-naturedly, as though he was teasing Merlin, for goodness sakes! "Then who made those plates fly?"

"Huh?"

Gwaine laughed, but abruptly stopped and made a stony expression. After a moment, the slavers whose attentions had been drawn seemed to decide that they'd imagined Gwaine's voice and turned back to the fire. Gwaine grinned at Merlin then. "When we first met in that bar fight. I saw you throwing plates - without your hands, of course. So, naturally, I went over to introduce myself."

Merlin flushed at the memory. How could he have been so careless? And how could Gwaine have known all this time without having mentioned it or called him out? But there was always the chance that Gwaine really didn't know, and was waiting for Merlin's confession. Once he'd gotten that,  Gwaine would deem him a traitorous sorcerer, free himself, and leave Merlin at the mercy of their captors. It would be easy for the knight to escape, especially without the warlock 's noisy stumbling to hinder him.

Merlin closed his eyes in dismay for a moment. When he felt that he could trust his voice to speak, he tried one last time: "I don't know what you're talking about. I threw those plates, yes," he said, opening his eyes, "but not with...magic." He trailed off when Gwaine appeared to have lost interest in the conversation, wearing a pensive expression. Merlin's pulse faltered with his dejected spirit. Gwaine really had wanted to leave Merlin behind after getting his confession. The burn on his belly again  announced its presence. 

"I understand, Merlin," Gwaine said somberly. "If I had magic I'd lie, too. But you can trust me, mate. I swear it." He shot the warlock his familiar, charming smile.

Merlin stared intensely into Gwaine's eyes, as though judging his sincerity. Then Merlin averted his gaze, nodding slowly. Gwaine's hopes shot up. 

But just as quickly they sank again. Merlin's eyes once more slipped closed, and his lips pressed into a thin line. "I do have magic," he said so lowly that Gwaine nearly missed it.

Gwaine nodded encouragingly despite that Merlin wasn't looking. "I know, mate. Your secret is safe with me - has been, really. Let's get out of here, eh?"

The young man shook his head sadly, lowering his chin towards his chest in a posture of resignation. "I'm sorry," he said miserably.

"Merlin?"

"I have magic, but I can't use it."

"You can," Gwaine insisted. "Nothing will come of it but our escape, I swear it. I'll come up with the story for Princess. I'll tell him that I managed to get my boot knife and saw through our -"

"No, I can't!" Merlin hissed harshly, opening his eyes halfway to shoot him a glare.

Gwaine frowned, perplexed.

Merlin's features immediately softened. "Sorry," he whispered. "It's just...the mark. It's suppressing my magic. I can't use it."

Brown eyes alit with understanding. "Oh," he uttered, for lack of any intelligent reply. "Oh," he repeated more softly. Then his gaze hardened. "Does it hurt more than a normal burn should?"

Merlin hesitated, and Gwaine took it for the not- answer it was. 

"Those bastards," he growled through gritted teeth.

Merlin shook his head dejectedly. "We'll just have to wait until Arthur finds our trail."

Gwaine nodded slowly, somehow managing to look lividly at their captors and sympathetic toward his friend all at once.  It was then that he noticed that the slavers were packing up camp. Gwaine scowled. Of course they were going to be moving at night. It made them harder to track. And of course they'd be moving out as soon as possible, considering they'd just snatched a knight of Camelot. Where there was one knight, there were certainly more, and even the slavers weren't so arrogant to think they could win that battle.

The knight glared  as he and Merlin were cut loose from the tree. Four more men stepped forward, two for Gwaine and two for Merlin, and firmly led them toward the cage across the small clearing. Out of the corner of his eye, Gwaine watched the men work. He begrudgingly admitted that they were very quick and efficient, leaving no trace. Arthur and the others would be hard-pressed to find them. Not that it would deter them, just slow them down a bit.

He shot off a quick prayer  to whomever would listen  that they were found quickly.  Poor  Merlin looked to be seriously ill - borderline deathly. Gwaine would be extra vigilant in protecting his young friend, and if he saw a  relatively safe chance of escape he would definitely take it.

He and Merlin had both expected to be hauled up and locked into the horse-drawn cage, but instead found themselves being tied to the back of it. Apparently they would be walking. A bit worrisome that was, considering that Merlin would be clumsier than usual due to his bound hands and to his pain. And it was getting dark. Neither man said anything, however, unwilling to give the slavers any reason to harm them. After all, they were slaves now.

The slavers who had tied them to the thick iron bars of the cage tested the strength of the ropes and made sure that they were still wound tightly around their captives' wrists. Once satisfied, they turned away and gave a signal not unlike the ones Arthur used and Merlin could never understand. A quick glance behind him told Gwaine that they had finished packing up. If Gwaine hadn't known better, he never would have  guessed that that particular clearing had ever been occupied as a camp.

He was roused from his thoughts as the cage suddenly moved forward, pulling his length of rope taut. Merlin staggered a bit, too, obviously having been caught up in his own musings.  Gwaine moved to the warlock's side and matched his pace. He wouldn't be able to do much, but he could make sure he didn't fall and end up being dragged across the forest floor. The knight was certain that the slavers wouldn't be kind enough to stop, and might even consider killing Merlin if he seemed more trouble than he was worth. Gwaine would not allow that to happen.

Gwaine cast a quick look about to see if anyone was watching. The group was moving as silently as they were able, not counting the sound of crunching leaves and twigs under their boots and the wheels of the cart. There was an occasional snort that probably belonged to the horse, but Gwaine wouldn't put it past the disgusting men surrounding him to be making the noise. When he was sure no one was looking, Gwaine casually worked his prized ring off of his finger and let it fall amongst the leaves. He did not look back to see where it landed, though; if he did so, someone might notice. 

Merlin stumbled, and  Gwaine moved protectively closer and steadied him by the arm. 

"All right?" he whispered lowly.

Merlin nodded shortly and pulled away, but not before Gwaine felt the tremor that  wracked him. Gwaine's brow furrowed, but he did not comment. 

The knight allowed himself to be caught up in his mind again. It really was a shame that Merlin couldn't use his magic. They might have gotten away quite easily had it not been for that cursed brand. Or if Merlin had used his magic from the start, though he suspected he might have  indeed had a bit of help in his fighting. He smirked a bit as he remembered  numerous  falling branches, swerving bolts, stumbling enemies, and dropped weapons. Really, how had no one else noticed?

Then he supposed that he might not have been the only one who had. Perhaps the other knights, and maybe even Princess, knew as well, but it was a mutual understanding that it was not to be spoken of. But Merlin didn't seem to know that Gwaine knew, so if anyone else did he wouldn’t know about their knowledge, either. 

Gwaine shook his head. Often when he thought of Merlin he wondered whether anyone else was privy to the knowledge of the warlock's power. But he never confronted anyone for fear of condemning his precious friend. That wouldn't do at all. Merlin was a good man, a true friend. The world needed more Merlins. But perhaps that was what made the boy so special, so precious. Gwaine had sworn from the beginning that he would never allow anything to hurt him.

Merlin stumbled again, breaking Gwaine's train of thought, and he quickly righted him. But Merlin staggered to one side, pulling away, doubled over. 

"Merlin!" Gwaine hissed in alarm, reaching for him again. 

Merlin's rope pulled taut, and he pulled back against it. It did nothing but jerk him off his feet and send him sprawling to the ground. Gwaine cursed under his breath and moved to help him. The cage did not stop, and Merlin was  dragged along the path by his wrists. For some reason, he kept his head down and dug his toes into the ground. 

"Get up!" ordered one of the slavers, reaching down and pulling Merlin up by the back of his neckerchief. "Walk!"

Merlin complied, staring stonily ahead. Only the tightness around his eyes betrayed his pain.

The slaver smirked and moved back to where he had been walking alongside a companion, whispering raucous jokes. Gwaine quickly examined Merlin for any hurts, but only saw dirt, twigs, and leaves decorating the front of his shirt ( which must have caught on a root or something judging from the  small tear) and trousers, some of  it pooled in the folds of his soiled scarf. His wrists had been rubbed a bit raw, but that may have been from when they had been tied to the tree. 

"You all right?" Gwaine asked cautiously, noting the dangerously cold look in his friend's cerulean eyes. 

Merlin glanced at him, and his face softened. A ghost of a smile appeared on his lips. "I'm fine," he said. Then he returned his gaze forward. 

Gwaine nodded slowly, but gave Merlin another once-over just to be sure. Merlin really had a knack for hiding his  pain.

"Your belt's..." Gwaine quickly cut himself off, snapping his own eyes forward. In his peripheral vision he could see Merlin's lips press together the way they did when he was suppressing a grin. Gwaine also had to struggle not to laugh. Merlin had obviously had the same idea he'd had - leave a clue. While Gwaine had 'lost' his ring, Merlin had sneakily found a way of getting rid of his thin leather belt. It helped that he was so skinny the belt was relatively loose, and had probably been snagged on the root that had torn his shirt. 

Not to mention that long trail of drag marks he had left. Gwaine wondered if he should trip next. It could be fun.

"So," Gwaine struck up a conversation with the burly slaver walking nearest to them, "where're we headed?"

A cruel smile appeared on the man's lips, and he wet them with his tongue before replying, "Lot's kingdom, don't'cha know. Slavery's legal there. And they hate Camelot, too. Get a lot of money for you, that we will."

"Ah, yes," Gwaine nodded good-naturedly. "And will we be sold in the marketplace?"

"Nah," he said. "There's a good buyer not too far across the border. He pays a lot for slaves who might know things, and then he gets the information and sells it to Lot or some other power-hungry bastard."

"And how much are we worth, do you think?" Gwaine asked as though he were excited at the prospect of being sold. "How much do you reckon he'll pay over?"

The man laughed jovially, shaking his head. "For you, who knows? You're a knight of Camelot, so you'll know a lot about the layout of the castle and things of that nature. It's only a matter of how much the lord wants to know what you know. As for your friend there, well. He's probably not worth much, but he does have a pretty face. Perhaps some brothel owner might take a liking to him in the market."

Gwaine's agreeable façade fell instantly. "No," he said in a hard voice. "We are  not being separated."

The slaver's grin turned into a scowl as well. "You don’t have a choice, slave."

"He is my servant," Gwaine said coolly. "I will go nowhere without him. Unless, of course, you free him and allow him to go unhindered back to our patrol."

A steely glint found its way both into the knight's eye and the slaver's. Then the slaver leered at the pair and stalked off. 

Once he was gone, Merlin said, "I won't be leaving you."

"Don't be clingy, Merlin," Gwaine tossed his hair. "It's unattractive in women, let alone  in fine men such as yourself."

"You called me your servant," Merlin said, changing the subject in his breezy way that often infuriated Arthur.

"Yes. If they knew you were the princess's, then they'll probably treat you as terribly as me in order to learn Camelot's secrets."

"I wouldn't tell."

"I know you wouldn't, my friend," Gwaine smirked. "That's why they can't know. They'd very well kill you when they find out you're more stubborn than an ass. No, if they knew you were Princess's servant, they'd assume that you'd be privy to all sorts of information. Which you are, of course. You're present during all the meetings, you come along every patrol, you wash Princess's socks - that's the most important secret of all, my friend. They must never learn what his socks smell like."

Merlin shot him a mirthless, exasperated smile. Then he sobered and said in a wise tone, "If we cross into Lot's kingdom, it'll be difficult for Arthur and the others to follow. If they're found out, it could instigate a war."

Gwaine tilted his head in a conceding manner. "Yes, but you know them. When it's you, we'll do anything."

"It's you, too," Merlin said indignantly.

The knight smiled tightly. "Of course," he said amiably. 

The two friends fell silent for lack of anything to say.

So it was that, several hours later, after an exhausting night of walking, they were dismayed to find themselves crossing the border of Camelot into  Escetir. At some point during the night, Merlin had  managed to lose his neckerchief when even Gwaine wasn't looking. Gwaine didn't dare lose his precious necklace, but his leather gauntlet had fallen off (which in all honesty had taken quite a bit of concentration and subtle working). 

The chances of their being found were considerably diminished at this point. Not only  had  they run out of breadcrumbs, but they had crossed into a potentially dangerous kingdom. And there was no guarantee that the others had even found their trail yet, though neither man doubted for a second that it would (eventually) be.

Dawn was breaking when they finally exited the trees. Merlin and Gwaine weren't entirely sure whether to welcome the new day or not - after all, they had been enslaved, and were most definitely in enemy territory at this point. There, in the distance, a tall stone castle blighted a green field. It might have been beautiful in the sunrise had it not been the sinister aura surrounding it. It was obviously there that Gwaine and Merlin were being taken. 

It was almost another candle mark of walking before they reached its  towering gates.  Gwaine and Merlin shared a dreadful look, yet in each other's eyes they saw determination to survive, to escape. All would be well.

The slavers called for an audience, and were made to wait at the gate by the guards. Gwaine was busy casting his eyes about, searching out weak points, blind spots, anything that might help. A pile of barrels made for a good hiding spot, if they should need it when escaping. A protruding stone about halfway up the wall -  a  handhold if they should be able to scale it from the other side and drop down. That was as much as he could see before the  sentry returned and admitted them.

Merlin's tether was loosed first, and the skinny servant was led  through the gate. Gwaine followed his back with his intense gaze, practically pulling his holders behind him as he quickened his pace to keep up. He refused to be separated from the helpless warlock.

Luckily, it seemed no one had any intention of parting them just yet. They were herded up the stairs into the main doors of the mansion. Any servants milling about quickly ducked out of the way as though being  in the presence of  slavers was enough to be whisked away.  Gwaine and Merlin carried their heads proudly despite the humility of the situation. A short journey through the rather unremarkable halls brought them to what could only be described as a throne room. Both the knight and warlock were certain that this noble held no such power, but who were they to question it?

The slavers forced the two men onto their knees before the man sitting in the singular chair. Merlin cast his gaze about, taking in his supercilious surroundings. While the halls of the mansion had been quite bare, here the walls were covered with adornments, mostly weapons. There were several stuffed heads of poor, defenseless woodland creatures such as deer and boars mounted up on the wall, proudly displayed behind the man. It was for the noble that Gwaine had eyes for, completely ignoring the rest.

Two armed guards stood on either side and slightly behind the plush carpeted throne, eyes slightly glassy. They were obviously not the sharpest swords in the  armory. The noble reclined in his chair was pudgy and getting along in his years, judging by the thinning, greasy gray hair hanging  from his scalp. His beady gray eyes peered out from his sunken  sockets, cunning despite his rather ugly posture and visage. To Gwaine, he rather resembled a mangy rat.

"A knight of Camelot," said the noble in a reedy voice. His eyes raked down Gwaine's stiff body, examining him as though he were a pig in a market place. "What is your name, Sir?"

Gwaine smiled humorlessly. "It is I who should be asking such a question of you, my lord," he said. "You are, after all, greater than me, and therefore of more importance."

"Indeed," said the noble. "I am greater and more important, and that is precisely why you will answer my question, knight."

"I am Sir  Gwaine," Gwaine said in his humblest voice, which Merlin thought  resembled his drunken one. "And this is my servant, Kestrel. I ask that you keep him with me. It is rather unfair for me to enjoy your hospitality and not he, I think."

"Is it," said the noble. "Well, Sir  Gwaine, Kestrel." He stood slowly, his velvet purple  cape falling about his bulbous frame and concealing it (thank the gods for small miracles). "Welcome to my castle. I am Lord Brunhilde the Great."

"My lord," Gwaine nodded stiffly, and Merlin clumsily followed his lead.

Lord Brunhilde smiled tightly, and then looked up and addressed the apparent leader of the slavers. "Very well. How much?"

"No less than five hundred  gold," the  slaver licked his lips, eyes darting to  Gwaine, "for the knight. The servant...Well, how about two? 'Sa bargain, my lord."

"Quite," said the lord amiably. "Very well. Consider it paid." With a curt nod of his head, one of the guards behind him stepped forward, producing a sack of coins. "Count out seven hundred  and send them on their way."

"Yes, my lord."

Lord Brunhilde stepped regally down the three steps from his pedestal. "Please, Sir  Gwaine, Kestrel. Stand."

Merlin and Gwaine did so. Merlin  kept his eyes downcast in an unusual display of servitude. Gwaine met the lord's gaze in his paradoxically friendly but challenging way. Lord Brunhilde was obviously unperturbed.

"If you'll follow me," he said in his grating voice, "I'll escort you to your new chambers myself."

At the word chambers, Merlin snapped his gaze up to look at Gwaine and waggle his eyebrows. Gwaine suppressed a smirk. Supposedly they were going to be kept comfortable during their stay as slaves. It would probably be one of the best experiences either of them had had. If things went smoothly, Merlin and Gwaine might just turn Arthur's rescue party away themselves.

"Guard," said Lord Brunhilde. The  man who had not escorted the slavers  heeded his call. This one brought forth a jewel-studded cane, and a very extravagant one at that. Merlin wondered just how rich this man really was, or whether he had already squandered his fortune. It seemed, though, that if he had that sort of money to throw around just for buying slaves, he had plenty enough to support his lifestyle.

With a satisfying tap of his cane on the stone floor, Brunhilde stepped past Gwaine and Merlin to lead the way. His waddling walk meant that Merlin and Gwaine's aching legs had a bit of respite from their earlier pace. They carefully kept behind the lord. Despite his friendly demeanor, they both knew that he could exercise his flaunted power quickly and efficiently. Not to mention that as they traveled through the halls, more guards seemed to join in on the procession. In fact, five  escorts were trailing behind them. 

The slaves' suspicions only grew when they came  to  a descend ing staircase. If their new quarters were located downstairs, then it was only logical to assume - the air grew colder, and their boots echoed loudly across the dampening, moldering walls - that they were being taken to the dungeons. Lovely.

Two  watchmen were already waiting at the bottom of the stairs, one proffering a key ring to his master. Brunhilde took it without a single acknowledgement, and went to the first cell. The thick iron bars easily swung open on its oiled hinges. Gwaine warily noted the single straw-stuffed mattress lying in one corner. Merlin would have that, definitely, he decided immediately. A chipped chamber pot was situated on the other side of the cell, and a ragged, threadbare blanket hung from one of the manacles that were ominously cemented into the wall.

"In you go," said Brunhilde, gesturing grandly.

Merlin scowled, but quickly complied. The knight gave a dramatic sigh, punctuated it with a flip of his hair, and followed the warlock in. To their surprise, though, Brunhilde also entered. 

"I know it doesn't seem like much now," Brunhilde said in an apologetic voice, "but if you're both good little slaves I'll see what we can do to have it fixed up quite nicely."

"You're very kind," Gwaine said in a sickly sweet tone.

Merlin stared down at his  boots. He knew that he could do nothing in his state, so he would do his very best to behave. If he did, there was a better chance at being able to get away and back to Arthur. Although behaving didn't include standing down meekly when he was antagonized; no, he still had his sardonic wit.

"I would like to talk, Sir  Gwaine ," Brunhilde said politely.

"Ah, yes, talking. One of my favorite past times as well, my lord."

"Quite," the lord inclined his head agreeably. "Tell me, if you will, about Camelot's siege tunnels."

"There are none," Gwaine shrugged indifferently.

"Really?" said Brunhilde, though it was apparent he didn't believe the knight for a second. "Then tell me of its weaknesses."

"Ah, but there are none of those, either," Gwaine said, feigning apology. "But I can tell you, my lord, which of the taverns has the best mead. That would be  The Rising Sun. Or, if you prefer ale, it's -"

"Thank you," said Brunhilde. This time, however, there was a slightly miffed tone underlying the politeness, as well as a colder glint in his beady eyes. "Sir  Gwaine, I really must implore you to answer adequately. I cannot be held responsible for whatever may befall you if you do not."

"I see," Gwaine said thoughtfully. "Adequate answers is what you're after?  Does that mean you're not looking for a good tavern trip?"

Suddenly, before either of the captives could even register what had happened, Gwaine was flung back by an invisible force and into the wall, where he became stuck like a fly on honey. Merlin was spun around so that he faced his stunned friend, and then crumpled to his knees as though a great weight had fallen onto his shoulders.  Gwaine stared  openmouthed at Brunhilde, whose eyes faded from molten gold back to gray. 

"I demand answers, Sir  Gwaine," he said.

Gwaine scowled. "Do whatever you wish with me. I shall never betray my king."

Admiration filled Merlin's heart at that for his bravery, but there was also fear.  Gwaine was going to be tortured in front of his  very  eyes. He struggled against his invisible binds, all the while calling desperately upon his magic. It refused to come, too wary of the pain that would shove it back. Merlin cursed the brand mark above his navel. Luck was just never on his side!

"I see," said Brunhilde. "Then I must tell you that I derive no pleasure from this, Sir."

Gwaine gave him a humorless smile.

Merlin's eyes widened as Brunhilde raised the studded cane - the gems embedded into the wood would certainly make it hurt all the more, possibly even cut skin. It was dangerous! Gwaine tensed but did not avert his eyes or flinch. He was prepared for pain.

Merlin stared desperately at Gwaine, inwardly screaming for his magic. They needed to escape before Gwaine was hurt. It was dire! He needed to help Gwaine move out of the way, to loosen Brunhilde's hold on him. But his magic would not come.

Brunhilde's cane reached its pinnacle and came sweeping down with a force that surely should have surpassed what the old man had. It wasn't until it was too late that Gwaine realized he was not the one to be hit. Merlin was too focused on his inward battle to see his friend's widening eyes, mouth opening to desperately rectify his mistake, to stop it from happening. 

But too late.

A sickening thump resounded through the small cell as the studded cane made contact with Merlin's back. Merlin's breath hitched in his throat a split second before the breath was torn from his lungs  by means of  a raw yelp. His back exploded in pain. He doubled over as much as he could in his magic restraints, face screwed up as he bit back his cries. Gwaine was screaming something, but Merlin couldn't quite make it out. After a moment, he managed to suck in a breath - he hadn't realized he wasn't breathing. Once he had a lungful of air, the pain considerably lessened until it was but a bone-deep throbbing. It still hurt, but it was bearable.

Merlin blinked back his tears and frowned. Gwaine was talking very quickly, rambling about something, and it wasn't anything superficial. With a gasp, Merlin tilted his head back and gaped. "Gwaine, no!"

"...and on the west side the tunnels start underneath a guard post. It's easy to distract them, usually, just fly an arrow off to one side so they'll investigate and you can sneak right in." Gwaine finished, breathing a bit heavily, and looked at Brunhilde imploringly. It was so unlike Gwaine that for a moment, Merlin thought he might have been enchanted, but then he quickly dismissed the idea. Gwaine was certainly in his right mind. He was trying to protect Merlin, to spare him from any more torture.

Brunhilde nodded slowly, and Merlin turned his furious gaze on him. "And the weaknesses?"

"Don't tell him!" Merlin spat angrily.

Gwaine only spared him a frightened, sorrowful glance, but when he looked back to  Brunhilde his gaze had hardened. "The walls are strong."

"Shut up! No!" Merlin shouted.

He was decidedly ignored. Gwaine continued, "The siege tunnels are the best way in, but if you could somehow dispatch the watch guards without calling attention -"

"Stop it! Tell him nothing!"

"- then it would be no difficulty to scale the walls."

"Traitor!" Merlin snarled.  Gwaine's jaw tightened, and a look of hurt flashed through his eyes, but Merlin didn’t care. Camelot's secrets were being divulged to protect him from pain. It wasn't right! Camelot couldn't fall just because he'd been stupid and gotten himself and Gwaine caught. Arthur couldn't fall. It just couldn’t happen. Gwaine was ruining everything, ruining his destiny!

Brunhilde glanced at Merlin out of the corner of his eye, and smirked. Merlin spat on the lord's boot, earning himself a kick in the mouth.

"Oi!" Gwaine barked. "I've told you what you've asked, now leave him be!"

"Oh, very well," the lord rolled his eyes. "I am satisfied - for now." Brunhilde slowly exited the cell, swinging the door shut behind him. There was an audible, final clang, and then a loud click as he locked it with the key. It wasn't until he had waddled out of sight that Gwaine and Merlin were released from their binds, and the ropes loosened.

Gwaine stumbled onto his knees by Merlin's side, casting his ropes away. "Let me see what that bastard's done, my friend," he said gently, taking hold of Merlin's jacket.

"No," Merlin hissed, elbowing Gwaine aside. "You've betrayed Arthur. How could you?"

Gwaine reached for him again. "How could I not? He was hurting you. Let me help you, Merlin."

"Stay away from me, you traitor," Merlin said petulantly. It wasn't so much that he was angry at Gwaine. It was the situation, and the lord,  and his magic, and being away from Arthur, who was surely worried by now. Or was he? Did Arthur care he was missing? No, he was probably more panicked about his missing knight. 

Gwaine lowered his hands into his lap, looking hurt.

Merlin refused to look at him, and shakily stood and shuffled off to one corner.  His shoulders were hunched in pain, which he knew didn't help, but all the same he couldn't seem to force them to relax. He pressed his  bruised  lips tightly together, determined not to  voice  his pain.

"Take the bed, Merlin."

"No."

"Please?"

Merlin ignored him and settled down with his throbbing back to him. Gwaine sadly shook his head, but he could not bring himself to regret what he'd  done. He would give away everything he knew if it would protect his friend. 

"I'll get us out of here, Merlin, my friend," Gwaine whispered. "I swear it."

If Merlin had heard him, he did not acknowledge his words.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Chapter 2

"Wake up!"

Merlin bolted upright from his slumped position against the wall, and immediately regretted it. The bone-deep bruise across  his back  smarted with a vengeance, and he couldn't stop the  hoarse  moan that came from his throat. Not far from him, with his head leaned back against the wall,  Gwaine opened his eyes and regarded the  man  at the cell door casually.

"Good morning to you," he said.

The guard leered at them. "Eat up," he said, tossing two hard loaves of bread into the cell. "You'll not have anything else until you've completed your work for the day."

"Work?" Merlin frowned. 

"The mansion isn't going to clean itself," sneered the guard.  He motioned a servant forward, and she carefully maneuvered a pitcher of water through the iron bars and set it down gently. She backed away, hands clasped in front of her midsection and eyes lowered. She followed the  warden away without  a single glance  at the prisoners.

Gwaine and Merlin glared at  the guard  until  he was gone, at which point Gwaine stole forward and picked up the bread and water. "Well, it's not moldy, at least," he said cheerily, sitting beside Merlin and proffering the larger of the two loaves to him.  He set the pitcher between them, closer to Merlin in an attempt to discreetly minimize Merlin's movement.

Merlin sullenly accepted  the bread, feeling quite stiff and sore. He didn't complain, though, and took a small bite of  it. When  Gwaine saw that Merlin wasn't going to talk, he began to eat as well. "It could be worse," he said with his mouth full. "Princess could be here. That'd be annoying, wouldn't it?"

Aside from a slight furrowing of the brow, Merlin did not react to  Gwaine's voice.

Gwaine felt a bit put out, to say the least. So he fell silent and ate his bread, as did Merlin. Between the two of them, the water was polished off quickly, though Gwaine made sure to take as little as he could. Merlin needed - and deserved - it more than he.

They'd only had a few minutes to digest before the same  man came to fetch them, heavy boots resounding loudly throughout the dungeon. He turned the key and yanked open the door. "Let's go," he said impatiently, jerking his head.

Gwaine stood and stretched leisurely,  watching Merlin out of the corner of his eye. Merlin stood slowly and stiffly, obviously more than a little sore from all the walking and the blunt force of the  studded  cane across his back. Once he was on his feet,  Gwaine moved forward to lead the way, making sure to keep himself between Merlin and the guard.

"So," he said, "what'll we be doing today? Could we  per haps work in the kitchens? I'm still feeling a bit peckish. "

The guard knocked Gwaine upside the head and stalked past the two of them wordlessly, clearly expecting them to follow. The knight rolled his eyes, and saw Merlin glaring murderously at the  chaperon. But when Merlin caught Gwaine looking he quickly schooled his features into one more neutral. While that hurt a bit, Gwaine was also a bit relieved that Merlin really didn't hate him - he was just in a bad mood and taking it out on Gwaine. He'd give the poor man his space for a while. It was the least he could do.

The y were led up and out of the dungeons, and the two slaves saw that it was a bright, sunny morning. It did little to improve their moods, however, once it became clear that they would not be going outside. Rather, once they had reached the end of the hallway, a flighty servant appeared and escorted them to their destination, fidgeting all the way. He clearly was underfed and hadn't had enough sleep, and  Gwaine pitied the young man. He decided against speaking, as the  passing servants kept their eyes lowered as they attended their chores and errands. 

A grand ballroom was presented to them through a pair of large, oaken doors. The nervous servant ushered them inside and gestured toward the handful of already present  workers. Some were scrubbing the  marble floor with soapy brushes; others wiped fervently at the huge, stained-glass windows on the right; still others carefully dusted the line of mirrors on the opposite wall. The air danced with brilliant, dazzling colors as the sun penetrated the dyed glass and then bounced off the mirrors.  Gwaine and Merlin stood in awe for a long moment, but then were prompted to move by their  near- silent escort.

"You'll be scrubbing," he whispered quickly, eyes darting around as though to make sure no one heard him. 

Merlin nodded resignedly and headed toward one of the unmanned buckets across the room. 

Gwaine, of course, dallied. "What's the occasion?" he asked loudly, voice echoing slightly. 

All movement stopped, dozens of  heads swiveling to look at the knight with wide eyes. The escorting servant had pressed his hands to his mouth, looking terrified.  Gwaine only raised his eyebrow. 

"It's a nice room," he continued, though a wary, concerned tone had crept into his voice, "but it looks clean enough now. Unless the king  himself is coming over for a dance tonight, I see no reason to work our hands till they bleed." 

One of the maidservants self-consciously pressed her pruning, bloody fingers into the hem of her ragged gray dress.

When he still received no acknowledgement but their petrified stares, Gwaine sighed. "All right, then. I suppose it could do with a bit more  shining." He sauntered forward, breaking the suffocating ice that had held the room captive. All the servants, obviously relieved, turned back to their work. The soft sounds of scraping bristles against smooth stone and light squeaks of  cloths against  glass  peppered the air almost peacefully, but  Gwaine found it irritating. To his surprise, Merlin had knelt onto his knees and begun scrubbing without complaint, moving his arms stiffly to accommodate his back.

Gwaine sank to the floor beside him and took up his own brush, scrutinizing the suds caught in the bristles. "What is this, porcupine quills? Horse hair?" When Merlin didn't even crack a smile, Gwaine shrugged and set to work, trying not to feel hurt.

It wasn't too long before Gwaine's hands and knees began to  ache. He shifted onto his rump, soiling the seat of his pants, but he didn't particularly mind. His hands were a different matter. The knight couldn't very well stop, not when everyone else was working  diligently, and he was quite sure that they were probably all feeling the same way - and in Merlin's case, worse. So he settled for cracking his knuckles, which helped a bit, and then resumed his task with exceptionally pruned, peeling fingers.

On Merlin's part, he was hardly aware of what he was doing. He was too busy trying to focus on his thoughts to distract himself from the dull ache that permeated through his body. He wondered whether Arthur had found their trail, and, if he had, was he following it? Would he cross the border to search for them? Would he come to the castle and be sent away, or would he bypass it altogether? Or, maybe, he was fighting his way through the castle at that moment, the Roundtable Knights at his heels, swords flashing and felling enemies left and right. 

Ah, that was wishful thinking. Merlin should know that by now nothing would go his way. Things would probably get worse if he didn't think of something. He'd need to find a way to get himself and Gwaine out - it was his fault, after all. Merlin should have acted more quickly, should have known that Gwaine wouldn't care about something like magic. Gwaine was too good a person to be put out by it.

They couldn't break out of the cell. They had nothing with which to pick the lock, and Merlin could not use his magic. So they would need to make a run for it sometime during the day while everyone was distracted with work. It seemed that the guard would escort them out of the dungeon in the morning, as he had earlier, and most likely back when the sun set, and otherwise leave them with the other servants. If that was indeed the case, that left several long hours to find an opportunity. That should be simple enough - as long as the mansion  servants could keep quiet about it.

Merlin sat back on his heels for a moment and wearily looked round. The windows and mirrors had been finished some time ago, and those who had been working on them had joined everyone else on the floor, mopping up the excess soapy water. The ballroom was nearly finished. But Merlin was under no delusion that their day would be finished along with it - he knew firsthand how much there was to do around a castle, even though this one was quite small in comparison to Camelot. 

As Merlin had thought would happen, when the grand ballroom was finally completed, the nervous servant who had led him and  Gwaine came back to fetch them. He motioned for them to follow him again, and they did, all the while casting their eyes about to memorize the layout of the mansion and for possible escape routes. To their immense surprise, they were led directly outside into the  noonday  sunlight. The view of the forest was obscured behind the tall wall, which revealed no exploitable means of scaling, and the only way out appeared to be the guarded gate. They'd have their work cut out for them, surely.

The servant pointed ahead to a single well that was directly in the sight of the bored gate  watchers. "Draw water for laundering," he said, then shifted his arm so that his finger pointed to an open side door. "Take it in there, follow the hall until the next door, and pour one in, and put the other on to boil. Two more trips after that, one in the tub, one to boil, and then pour in the boiling water. Wash the laundry the maids bring."

Gwaine blinked blearily at the servant's dull but crisp tone, but Merlin nodded mutely. The servant shuffled his feet for a moment, looking torn, but then nodded curtly and swiftly walked back the way they had come. Gwaine let out a huff of air.

"Jolly old chap, isn't he?" he quipped.

Merlin refused his older friend's gaze and headed toward the well.  Gwaine watched him sadly for a moment, then  neutralized  his expression and followed after him. Even if Merlin  was still angry with  him, he was still his responsibility until they got back to Arthur and the others, or to  Camelot. The knight  kept an eye out for any means of escape, quickening his pace a bit so that he could reach the well first. Merlin was stubborn and might insist on pulling up his own bucket, but if  Gwaine got it first then it would be his job.

Gwaine  stooped and picked up one of the buckets from the hazardous stack next to the stone wall of the well, and deftly hooked it to the rope before dropping it. Merlin blinked at him with a trace of amusement, and  Gwaine laughed aloud as he realized that the  roofed well was actually quite full, and that there was no need for the rope after all. He shot his grin at Merlin, who was obviously struggling to hold back. Merlin picked up a pail of his own and scooped up some water. 

Gwaine's humor faded at the pained grimace on Merlin's face as he lifted the water. He knew better, though, than to say anything. Merlin would absolutely refuse help on his deathbed, if it came down to it. He quickly filled his own bucket and matched Merlin's pace, determined to not let the stubborn warlock harm himself.

The trip to the laundering room was not too far. It was almost just inside the castle. The room was large and had two  tall , high windows, both of which were propped open to allow for warm, dry air. A huge tub was at the center of the room, several washing boards balanced on the rim. A box that  Gwaine presumed was full of soap was next to the tub alongside a rather menacing pile of fabrics. Merlin carried his bucket to the other side of the room and hung the water over a crackling fire. There were no logs in it, so the knight immediately knew it was of magical nature.

When he realized that Merlin was watching him, Gwaine snapped himself out of his thoughts and stepped forward to dump the contents of his bucket into the tub. He realized then that the tub was not as large as he'd first thought. Though it had a wide circumference, it was rather shallow, possibly to allow several washers at once. Giving Merlin a short nod, they went together back out to the well, bucket swinging lazily at Gwaine's side.

They repeated the process twice, as they were told. The cold water filled the tub about halfway, and Merlin's buckets were, once they boiled, pulled from the fire and dumped into the basin. Thick white steam rose like fog, hissing ominously, and  Gwaine watched it for a long moment. Merlin, entirely too used to such a sight, merely sighed and knelt beside the pile of clothing, throwing a few articles into the hot water.

Gwaine, of course, had experience in clothes washing. After all, he'd had years of practice with washing his own clothes in streams when they became unbearably dirty. He was, though, unused to the heat of the water and the rough scrubbing with the bar of soap. The soap didn't even smell that good.

The knight voiced all of this aloud as he worked, but Merlin was stubbornly silent. His brows were furrowed in concentration and pain, his back stiff to lessen the strain on his bruised muscles. So, seeing that his rambling was doing no good, Gwaine at last fell silent. Gwaine's arms were burning from exertion, but he refused to slow down. It was up to him to do the majority of the work in order to spare Merlin's strength. It was only fair, considering Gwaine had gotten him into this mess. Arthur was going to kill him. Rightly so, as he deserved it.

A splash of sudsy water to the face abruptly brought  Gwaine out of his musings, and, spluttering, he looked to Merlin in shock. Once the knight's eyes were on him, Merlin smirked and returned to wringing out the blue tunic he was working on. A tentative grin lit up Gwaine's expression, and he, too, continued a little less fervently. Merlin definitely did not hate him, was not even really angry with him. Gwaine understood, and knew that Merlin knew he was blaming himself. They hadn't needed words to communicate that.

As they worked through the monstrous pile, they grew more weary, but they persevered. They weren't entirely sure what would happen should they not finish or take a break, but they decided not to take the risk. The light began to fade as the hours progressed, and the skin of their abused hands were peeling - even Merlin's, who scrubbed things on a daily basis. But at last, at sunset, a guard came to fetch them. 

The guard, who was a different man than their morning escort, silently led them back through the simplistic halls to the dungeons. The torches blazed brightly, casting writhing shadows as they passed. For some reason unbeknownst to them, the shutters on the windows had been closed, blocking out the last light of the day. It was strange, but Gwaine and Merlin were both too exhausted to ask after it. 

The coolness of the air beneath the castle was a bit soothing on their overheated skin after all the hard work they'd done. Both were aware that the comfort wouldn't last long; their sweat would chill them. 

When they arrived at their cell, their escort opened the door and bade them enter, which they did. They were glad to find that there were two trays each laden with a loaf of bread, a cup of water, and a small serving of stew.  Gwaine and Merlin needed the sustenance, and they looked forward to filling their empty bellies. But not until the guard locked them in and left did they even move toward their meal. It was a bit ridiculous, but the very notion of showing any weakness such as hunger in front of the castle workers made them feel rebellious. 

Once the footsteps had finally receded, the twosome sat wearily and tucked in. There was nothing to be said at the moment, only the need to eat. It did not take long to finish off the meager supper, and Merlin pushed his tray away as Gwaine leaned back and stretched his aching legs out. 

"You'll take the bed, won't you?" Gwaine asked casually.

"We can both sleep on it," Merlin replied, fiddling with an interesting tear he found in the knee of his trousers. With his other hand he absently rubbed at the back of his prickling neck, still unused to not having his neckerchief. He hoped Arthur had found it - and kept it in good condition. If the king didn't, Merlin was sure Lancelot would. 

"All right," Gwaine agreed. "Here." He pulled the single threadbare blanket free from the confines of the hanging manacle and proffered it to Merlin, who accepted it resignedly. It took a bit of fidgeting and maneuvering, but they did manage to lie relatively comfortably together on the mattress. It smelled a bit, but it was better than lying on the cold stone floor. Merlin lay on his side to dissuade pressure on his bruise, facing the orange light from the hall.

Once settled, the men closed their eyes for a much-needed sleep.

Until Merlin asked, "Gwaine?" 

"Yes, my friend?"

"We need to escape."

Gwaine was silent for a long moment, soaking in Merlin's words. "I know," he said. "I'm working on it."

"As am I," Merlin said dryly. "I think we'll have to go out the front gate during the day."

"I do, too."

"It'll be hard and perilous."

"The chances look to be between slim and none...I like the look of those odds."

Merlin grinned despite himself, remembering their first meeting, and he could hear the humor in  Gwaine's voice. "Any ideas?"

"I might have."

{MERLIN}

They were both a bit more surprised than they should have been to discover that their schedule was exactly the same as the previous day. The morning sentry woke them and delivered their breakfast, and returned after they'd eaten to take them upstairs. At the end of the hall, the head servant met and escorted them to the grand ballroom. Inside revealed the exact  set-up as before: servants scrubbing the floor, polishing the stained glass windows, and dusting the wall of mirrors. 

Merlin and Gwaine exchanged a look of utter incredulity.

"You," Gwaine said, clapping a heavy hand on the nervous servant's shoulder. The  man  started violently, turning to the knight so quickly that he might have given himself whiplash, and stared wide-eyed at him. As the day before, all movement in the room ceased in favor of warily watching the new slave. "What's your name?"

"Dougal," he whispered.

"Dougal, my friend," Gwaine smiled, patting his shoulder. "Care to explain how exactly this room got so  filthy  after such a thorough cleaning yesterday?"

Dougal shifted his weight from foot to foot, eyes darting about to his peers as though begging help or intervention. No one moved. "It's," he stuttered, "I mean, our job, we...Our  lord wishes it of us."

"Hm," Gwaine said. "All right, then." He released Dougal's shoulder and moved toward an unmanned bucket, Merlin trailing behind him. All the servants visibly relaxed, and the suffocating atmosphere lifted as everyone returned to work. Dougal made a quick escape out of the doors to wherever he was needed.

The two slaves shared a dark look as they knelt to the floor and took up the brushes. It would be a long day ahead, yes, but thanks to the replicated schedule it would make it all the easier for them to make their getaway. They'd spent long hours discussing what to do and when, and make up rendezvous points and lies in case they were separated or caught. Both severely hoped that all would go according to plan.

Once the ballroom had been cleaned up so that it was sparkling (though it had been quite sparkly to begin with, thank you very much), their hands were in much worse shape than before. The skin that had peeled off had had no chance to grow back, leaving large white blisters on their pruning hands. Around their nails, it puckered up and was very sore. Neither dared complain, though. They needed to draw as little attention as possible in order to get out.

Dougal retrieved them and led them back out to the well so that they could fetch the water and launder what seemed to be all the cloth in the castle. If at all possible, the mountain of washing was even taller than it had been the day prior. 

"Absolutely ridiculous," Merlin had ranted, throwing his hands up once they had filled the tub. "Brunhilde is even worse than the prat!"

"Good job we won't be here much longer," Gwaine smirked, smoothing out a  bedsheet on the drying line so that it wouldn't wrinkle. 

The men kept a diligent eye on the sunlight streaming in through the window. Everything needed to be done precisely down to the last minute. If their calculations were at all off, they would be easily apprehended, and that would most definitely not bode well. Which was why Merlin and Gwaine, as time crept by, became more and more tense and nervous. Perhaps that was how Dougal felt all the time. Gwaine once more found himself pitying the stranger.

But there was no time to dwell on that. He needed to focus. The chance to execute their plan was nearing. They could not afford to waste it. They could not fail.

Hearing the footsteps of the evening guard coming to fetch them, Gwaine and Merlin nodded and hid behind the drying linens. They'd already tested it to be sure that their feet and silhouettes could not be seen through the material. When the guard came in, he would not find them. That was, he would not find them if he did not venture into the room like a sensible idiot and check. But in that case, Gwaine was ready to fight.

As they hoped, the confused sentry entered the room and looked round, walking straight past their hiding spot. When he concluded that the slaves were not present, the guard spun on his heel to run out and sound the alarm - only to come face to face with a smirking Gwaine. 

"Oi," he frowned irritably.

Whatever the man might have said, Merlin and Gwaine would never know. One strike to the jaw was enough to take him out cold, sending him sprawling back into the tub with an almighty splash. Merlin only hesitated a moment to be sure that the man wasn't in danger of drowning while Gwaine took the liberty of borrowing his sword, and then followed hot on Gwaine's heels as they made a break for freedom.

They halted just inside the servant's entrance, peering around the  doorframe to see what the gate watchers were up to, and whether anyone else was about. There was only one man - his partner must have been the unfortunate fellow sent to bring them back to the cell. With a furtive last glance to be sure no one was watching, Gwaine motioned for Merlin to stay with him. The men didn't bother to crouch low as they ran, as it was still quite light outside.

Luck finally seemed to be on their side. The lone watchman was oblivious to their approach until they were practically upon him. He hardly had a chance to call out a warning before Gwaine's fist made contact with his stomach, driving all the air from his lungs. The hilt of the stolen sword to the base of his skull finished the job, and Gwaine let the man drop.

"Let's go!" he said, grabbing Merlin's wrist and sprinting out of the boundary of the mansion. They immediately made way to the forest, beyond which lay the realm of Camelot and their freedom. 

_" Sfeffin."_

Merlin felt it before he heard it. Gwaine's grip slackened almost instantly on both his wrist and on the sword, falling to the ground. Darkness began to crowd in around Merlin's vision even as he sluggishly turned around to see who had cast the sleeping spell. The blurry figure standing in the threshold of the gate lowered his hand, and the world fell out from under Merlin's feet as he was swallowed by the nothingness.

{MERLIN}

Gwaine's head pounded with a hangover. 

No, that wasn't quite right. Gwaine was sure he hadn't been drinking. He was on a mission with Princess and the others. And Merlin. The haze in his mind lifted slightly, and oh - so - slowly some snippets of memories were returning to him. There was something important, something urgent. It had to do with his young friend.

Merlin... _Merlin_!

Gwaine woke with a gasp, eyes darting about wildly. His heart gladdened to see Merlin lying nearby, sprawled out on the cell floor - for they were back in the cell again. Damn. So they'd gotten caught.  Gwaine, for the life of him, could not remember how they'd been caught. The last he remembered was running for it, pulling Merlin along, and then nothing.

No use worrying about it now. They needed to figure out what to do.

He moved toward Merlin to wake him, but was stopped short with a loud  rattle. Gwaine glared murderously up at his wrists, which were suspended in the manacles.  This worried him a bit, considering that whoever had brought them back had seen no need to chain Merlin up as well. Perhaps they didn't see him as a threat? Gwaine hoped that was it - the alternative was too gruesome and frightening to think of.

"Merlin," he hissed, shooting a look to the barred door to be sure that no one was nearing. "Merlin!"

The younger man stirred slightly, brow furrowing. Gwaine, relieved that he was still alive, knew that his head was hurting a bit as well, but there was nothing for it. He needed to wake up.

"Merlin!"

At last, Merlin's eyelids cracked open lazily, and his cerulean eyes locked onto  Gwaine's hazel ones. "Wha'ppened," he muttered, wincing as he brought his fingers toward his head and touched it.

"We were caught," Gwaine informed.

"Ah, right," Merlin said, letting his hand drop. "Sleeping spell."

Any further conversation they might have had was cut short by the sound of approaching footsteps. They were lighter than the familiar clomp of the guards', but very distinct. Gwaine's stomach dropped when he heard the tap of a cane on the stone floor. Lord Brunhilde was coming.

Sure enough, after a long, agonizing moment, the rotund noble appeared at the door and unlocked it with a flash of his eyes. His pallid face wore a severe frown. Gwaine was not afraid of the man - far from it - but he was terrified for Merlin. The man was willing to practically break the skinny warlock's shoulders for a tidbit of information. He could do so much worse, and, Gwaine swallowed thickly at the nauseating thought, he likely would.

"My lord,"  Gwaine greeted. He poorly attempted to mask his dread with cheer.

"Sir Gwaine," Brunhilde inclined his head, though there was no friendliness in the gesture. "Kestrel," he turned to Merlin, resting the cane at his side. 

"What brings you here?" Gwaine asked. "Would you like to know more about Camelot? I'm sure the king will be glad to have you. I'll put in a word and  have him send you an invitation, yeah?"

Brunhilde was apparently not amused. "I have heard of your escape attempt, Sir  Gwaine. I am disappointed in you. I had thought you would be much more compliant than that after I made it clear that Kestrel would be paying the consequences of your actions."

The knight's faux smile faded as his nightmare became realized. "Please, my lord, leave him be. It was my idea, and he could not say no when I ordered him to accompany me. He is just a servant."

Merlin stared at Gwaine fiercely with wide eyes. The look clearly read 'Do not take the blame for something that is my fault. I will take the punishment, so just shut up!' Gwaine ignored it.

"I am sorry, Sir Gwaine," Brunhilde said. "But as your master, I must carry out my word. A strong man does not bargain with those lower than him. All the same, I take no pleasure in this." As he spoke, Gwaine looked more and more panicked, and began to wring his hands in their biting metal restraints. The lord turned to Merlin, who, despite his resignation, was feeling more than a bit resentful of the pain that was about to befall him. "I am sorry, Kestrel. I wish you no ill  will."

"Then don't hurt me," Merlin snapped.

"Please," Gwaine said, giving up on the unyielding manacles. "Please, please, do it to me!"

Brunhilde ignored the man. With a golden flash of his eyes, Merlin found himself drawn up onto his knees, bowing at the lord's feet and unable to move. He squeezed his eyes shut, anticipation building up so greatly that it felt as though his heart might burst out of his chest. 

Gwaine continued to plead, voice rising in pitch as  the studded rod was brought up. "Please, hit me! _Hit me_!"

The cane came down with a whoosh and cracked against Merlin's bent  back, nearly in the same place as it had yesterday. Pain erupted along Merlin's shoulders and raced down his spine, jarring his teeth. Just as before, he yelped unwillingly, colors dancing in the darkness behind his eyelids. He tried to focus on bringing the air back into his body, glad that it was over. 

But the cane struck him again, and Merlin grunted more in surprise than pain, eyes snapping open. He tried to turn and look up at Brunhilde, but he was stuck fast. And then the surprise wore off, instantaneously replaced by another rush of pain. Tears collected in his bottom lashes , but he refused to let them fall. He wouldn't give Brunhilde the satisfaction.

Gwaine watched in horror as the lord raised his awful weapon again. "Please!" he screamed, uncaring of how frantic and unmanly he sounded. "You bastard! You dog-hearted, ugly coward! Hit me! Stop it! Please!" Rivulets of blood ran freely down his arms and soaked into his sleeves, but his pain was unheeded, and he continued to thrash desperately. 

Another resounding crack, and Merlin's short cry, was drowned out by a  peal of insults and pleas from Gwaine's mouth. Lord Brunhilde, on his part, completely ignored the knight, focused solely on the repetitive motion of raising and dropping the cane. After five strikes, he stopped and stepped back, lowering his stick. Gwaine slumped in his chains, eyes glued to Merlin's heaving figure. A small dribble of saliva dripped from Merlin's chin to the floor, tinged pink with blood.

"I'm sorry," Gwaine uttered. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

As the knight watched, Merlin was flipped onto his back with invisible hands, drawing a small, strangled cry. His brow was creased with pain, and he gasped for air in his struggle to stay conscious.

" _Tintreg_."

At the unfamiliar word, Gwaine's eyes flicked up to Brunhilde in confusion. He'd only a split second to register the gold in the lord's eyes before his attention was drawn back to Merlin. Merlin screamed horribly, back arching up off the floor. His face was twisted in agony, hands and feet scrabbling for purchase on the floor.

"No!" Gwaine roared, renewing his fight. "Please, no!"

Merlin writhed in a futile attempt to escape his torment, beating his hands and head on the ground. All the while he continued to scream and choke as though being burned from the inside out, tears  streaming. Only when his movement became jerky and weak, eyelids fluttering, was the spell released. The warlock slackened, breathing harshly. 

"I do hope you've learned your lesson, Sir Gwaine," Brunhilde said solemnly. Then, tapping his cane once, he turned and waddled out of the cell. 

A terrified  Gwaine had eyes only for his poor friend, still absently tugging at the manacles. Once Brunhilde had exited and locked the cell door, he magically released Gwaine. The knight was instantly at Merlin's side, scooping him up into his arms.

Merlin whimpered pathetically, his body a bundle of pain.

"I'm so sorry," Gwaine whispered, cradling Merlin's shivering form. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." He repeated the words again and again. Even when they became meaningless syllables, he said them, begging whatever god might listen to just let Merlin pass out. 

Gwaine knew he was bleeding, but he could not care less. Merlin was bleeding from the numerous lacerations on his back, caused by the cut jewels embedded in the cane, and from his mouth where he'd bitten his tongue. The warlock's eyes were scrunched closed, water still leaking and trailing towards his temples. Gwaine looked him over a bit to see the extent of the damage, and decided that whatever spell the bastard had used only caused pain without actual injury. He nearly broke down completely when he saw the dark stain on the front of Merlin's trousers.

"G...Gw'ne," Merlin keened thickly, arching his back painfully.

"I know," Gwaine whispered, maneuvering Merlin so that he lay more on his side, removing a bit of pressure from his back. "I know, I'm so sorry."

" 'S'not your faul'," Merlin half-sobbed.

Then the knight's tears did fall. "Just try to sleep, my friend," he choked out. "Just rest."

At last Merlin went limp in Gwaine's arms. He'd finally fallen into unconsciousness, freeing himself from the  aftereffects of his torture. Gwaine wasn't so fortunate.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Chapter 3

Despite Merlin's extensive injuries, the morning guard  insisted that Merlin work.  Gwaine fought tooth and nail  (Merlin's side of the story stated that Gwaine instigated a  flyting with the guard rather than any physical altercation)  for the better part of  an hour so that Merlin could stay  in their cell  and rest. It was Merlin who eventually forced himself  unsteadily  onto his feet, stood as tall as he was able, and marched out of his own accord.  Gwaine hovered protectively at Merlin's side, glaring at anyone who moved, including the other servants in the ballroom, who resolutely  kept their heads down and focused on their tasks. None of them seemed surprised that Merlin was in such  a condition.

Their schedule remained the same, and it seemed that nothing would change. Gwaine worked extra hard and fast, finishing his share of the work to shoulder some of Merlin's. Merlin could hardly move with out a new bolt of pain shooting down his arms and back, and his head throbbed sickeningly. Several times he had to stop and just breathe, and when he opened his eyes again he found that somehow the section of the floor he'd been scrubbing had been done. He suspected it was  Gwaine, but he was too exhausted and hurt to even think about calling him out on it. He supposed he  should be  grateful.

It was perhaps a mockery that the two slaves were kept on laundry duty. They didn't even bother to appoint a sentry to watch them as they worked.  Gwaine damned them all - they knew that they would not attempt anything again. It  had been  a mistake to try the first time.

"Merlin," Gwaine said softly.

Merlin turned his head slightly to indicate that he was listening.

"Take a break. I can finish this up."

The warlock shook his head, wincing as he did so. "No, that's not fair."

"Don't be ridiculous," Gwaine retorted. "You need to rest. You're hurt - and badly, at that."

Merlin scowled, but did not deny it. He felt like death warmed over, honestly. He couldn't remember a time he had hurt so much for so long. At other times his magic seemed to act as a sort of barrier to distance himself from his injuries, especially at the times Arthur was in danger.

That thought had Merlin suddenly wondering what Arthur was doing. Was he searching for them? Had he returned to Camelot? Probably not. Gwaine and Merlin had only been missing for about three days, give or take, so they must have found the trail by then. Merlin was quite certain that Arthur would indeed cross the border, at least until he spotted the castle, at which point he would probably devise a half-baked plan  to attempt to discern whether his manservant and knight were being held in the castle, and then go from there.

Or he might bypass the castle in favor of following the slavers' trail, too dollop-headed to believed that the lord might have bought them. Arthur would definitely want to avoid a war, if he could help it. Merlin wondered whether he and Gwaine should try to convince Brunhilde to ransom them. He'd surely at least consider it, if there was a profit - which there would be, especially in Gwaine's case.

It took a moment for Merlin to realize that his hands had gone idle, and that Gwaine was still furiously working. Chastising himself, Merlin took up the soap again and continued to scrub the pillow case he was working on. Gwaine's hand snatched out and took away the sudsy bar, and Merlin gave him a startled look. The knight stared back at him coolly, but there was a guilty, sorrowful expression underlying it. 

"Just let me take care of it, my friend," he said. "I insist."

Merlin hesitated, but at last conceded.  He turned and leaned gingerly back onto the tub, resting his dripping hands in his lap. He listened to the sound of splashing as Gwaine continued to work.

"Thanks," he said.

Gwaine snorted derisively. "For getting you into this?"

"For not leaving me," Merlin said, staring at his boots. 

The knight ceased his efforts and turned to look at Merlin with a confused and incredulous expression. "Who in their right mind would leave you, Merlin?" he said, uncharacteristically serious. "It's you who should be doing the leaving. You're too underappreciated, you know."

The corners of Merlin's lips twitched upwards, but the lightheartedness did not last. "I have magic."

"I know," Gwaine said.

"Magic is evil."

"Are you evil?"

Merlin's brows furrowed slightly. "Is that a trick question?"

"Not at all."

"I'm not evil."

"Then magic is not evil," Gwaine said conclusively. "I have been to many places, and seen all nature of things. There are good people, like you, and bad people, like Brunhilde, no matter where you go. And it has nothing to do with magic, my friend." Nodding as though approving of himself, he returned to his menial job.

The friends lapsed into another silence, Merlin contemplating Gwaine's words. He'd already known that Lancelot saw it the same way. He wondered whether Elyan and Percival would, too. He thought they might, Percival especially. Leon and Arthur, on the other hand, were a different matter entirely. They'd grown up under  Uther's rule, and still believed, for the most part, that sorcery was not to be trusted. A shame, really.

But there was nothing to be done for it.

Merlin shifted, trying to find the most comfortable position. There was no comfortable position for him, though, in his condition. But he wouldn't complain. Gwaine felt guilty enough already, even though it wasn't his fault. It was Merlin's for insisting on escaping, and then not  noticing the spell caster, whomever it was. Merlin suspected Brunhilde, but he hadn't gotten a good look, and Brunhilde might not be the only sorcerer. And then it was Brunhilde's fault, chiefly for being the one to put Merlin in his condition.

The man was a demon.

Merlin hoped Arthur was on his way.

"Merlin," Gwaine said suddenly.

He looked at him, raising his eyebrows.

"...Would you like me to wash your trousers, mate?"

{MERLIN}

Gwaine behaved for the next fortnight. The two weeks were grueling work, the same boring routine every day with the same people and the same guards. It was as though the mansion and its inhabitants were stuck in a perpetual motion, moving in a ghost-like state, reliving every day. It was a wonder that the servants didn't fade away as the days progressed.

Their hands had grown calluses, forming a thick, protective layer of skin. Though it sometimes broke under the strain and stung from the scouring soap, the men managed to live through it. 

Merlin's wounds had healed well. The lacerations closed up and left shiny pink scars, which would disappear with time. His bruises faded from deep purple and blue to brown and yellow, and in some places a sickly green. But it all meant that he was getting better. He was able to move more quickly and fluidly, though he was clumsy as always. The best part of it all was that he felt normal again.

Despite all the good news, there was one worry that nagged at them: Where was Arthur? 

There was no question that they had not, in fact, been abandoned. In all likelihood Arthur had searched for them until he simply could no longer stay away from Camelot, or he had found their trail and was unable to help them. Or he perhaps thought that they could fend for themselves, and was attempting to negotiate with Brunhilde. But they had not been forgotten, surely.

There was just no way to know for sure. Gwaine and Merlin often lay up at night discussing such predicaments, but they never reached any conclusion. Merlin privately thought, as he grew stronger, that they should attempt another escape. But he kept this to himself, knowing full well that  Gwaine would not agree to it. He needed to form a convincing argument. Perhaps if they could just get the servants to rally with them, then they might stand a chance and scatter. But those who were caught might be subjected to the same treatment that had been given to Merlin. He didn't want anyone to go through what he had, so he stowed that idea away as one of a last resort.

Merlin just needed to play his cards right, catch  Gwaine when he was in an agreeable mood to entertain such ideas. Usually he was up for all manner of things, but that had become a touchy subject with him, and for good reason. But still, something needed to be done. It had been two weeks, and there was no sign of Arthur or the Roundtable Knights.

His chance came when Gwaine was more tired than usual. For some reason he'd performed his duties with much more vigor than usual (probably from pent-up frustration), finishing ahead of time and working on other's areas.  Gwaine would be Gwaine, Merlin supposed.

Gwaine was lounging on the thin mattress, resting his eyes and body. Merlin sat leaning against the bars, mostly to listen for any visitors. After taking a moment to  gauge what Gwaine's reaction might be, Merlin began.

"Gwaine," he said.

"Hm?"

"It's merely a suggestion, but I think--"

"No."

Merlin bristled. "You don't even know what I was going to say."

"You were going to say we need to try and escape again, mate."

Merlin shook his head minutely even though Gwaine was not looking. "No," he lied. "I was going to say, um, that we should try and send a message out."

"Well, that lie is less ridiculous and far-fetched than usual," Gwaine said lightly, a clear smile tugging at his lips. He turned his head and opened his twinkling eyes. 

After only a moment of attempting to hold a straight face, Merlin too broke out in a grin. "Right," he said, sobering up, "but we really do need to get out of here."

Gwaine's humor faded, and he turned his head to look up at the ceiling. "I know."

"Maybe we could plan this next one a little better."

Gwaine grimaced.  "S'pose we could," he said softly. "We can't do it the same way we'd done. Broad daylight is too risky, in any case."

"We'll have to go at night," Merlin agreed. "We'll have to break out of this cell and sneak past the guards."

Gwaine nodded. "Tomorrow we'll find something to pick the lock with."

Merlin hummed in approval, then pushed himself up and went to the bed. "Move over a bit."

The knight obliged, and Merlin dropped down next to him. "Good night. We'll need to keep up our strength."

"Way ahead of you, mate." 

In a matter of moments, Gwaine was snoring softly, but it took Merlin several more to drop off. He took comfort in the steady sound of his friend's breathing, and soon enough he had matched it with his own. Both men dreamed of freedom.

{MERLIN}

They had caught the luckiest break in the history of lucky breaks. One of the maidservants dropped a pin, and in her hurry she did not notice. But Merlin did, and he quickly picked it up. It was a nice hair pin, for sure, and looked to be a family heirloom. Their need was far greater than his sense of chivalry,  though, so he pocketed it. His only acknowledgement of the deed was to send a guilty glance in the direction the maid had gone, but then he ducked his head and back to scrubbing the ballroom floor.

The small ornament felt hot and heavy in his pocket, and it took all Merlin had to leave it alone. He couldn’t afford to draw attention. Surely if the guards knew of its existence or saw it, they would confiscate it, and he would likely get a new cache of bruises. He shuddered at the memory of his last beating. It was something he never wanted to endure again.

Gwaine, though glad to not have to see Brunhilde's ugly mug, couldn’t help but to wonder where he had been. Usually someone who had in their possession a man who knew a lot about an enemy's stronghold would  question him more persistently, more severely. Had the lord decided that  Gwaine had given up all that he knew? Or was he bored of him? Or...Gwaine didn't want to think of any more possibilities, too afraid of where that could take him.

He cast a glance at Merlin. The young warlock had been acting strangely the last few hours, more jumpy than usual. Gwaine hoped that he wasn't planning anything stupid. Knowing Merlin, that could very well be the case. But he had to trust the guy, because he did - with his life.  Gwaine decided to pretend that he didn't notice Merlin's anxious state.

With a grimace, Gwaine looked down at his pruny hands. The skin was peeling again. Nothing to be done about it, though, so he sucked in a breath and picked up the brush. He was determined to finish his share, no more and no less. Unless it was Merlin's, though his young friend seemed to be working fast ahead of him.

It wasn't until later after they had finished laundering and been deposited into their cell for dinner and sleep that Merlin had shown Gwaine what he'd gotten. Upon seeing the pin in Merlin's callused hand, the knight's eyes had lit up brightly.

"Excellent, my friend!" he'd whispered, casting a furtive gaze toward the bars. There was no one there, of course. "Tonight?"

"Tonight," Merlin agreed solemnly. 

They clasped their hands in a  brotherly fashion, and then tucked into their last meal in that horrid estate.

{MERLIN}

After much whispered discussion, it was decided that they would risk picking the lock and sneaking out in the middle of the night. Neither of them slept, and neither would have been able to had they tried. There was always the chance that there was a guard situated at the base of the stairs, as there were in Camelot when prisoners were held. If not, then the stair landing might be guarded.

But Gwaine was confident enough in his hand-to-hand that they might make it without drawing too much attention. This time it was the dead of night, when  most everyone was asleep, when the sky was at its darkest.

Merlin pulled the broken pin from his pocket and handed it to Gwaine, who knelt in front of the bars and set to work picking the lock. More than a few hissed curses and a pricked finger later, the door was jimmied open .  Gwaine shot a smirk toward Merlin, who rolled his eyes at how incredibly practiced the knight was.

Then they sobered up. They needed to focus. Each muscle quivered with adrenaline, and they were hard-pressed to relax and move stealthily, Merlin even more so. He trusted Gwaine to get them out, and  brought up the rear since he was practically useless at the moment. The least he could do was keep an eye peeled for movement behind them.

There were no guards at the stairs. Merlin and Gwaine released terse breaths, shoulders deflating slightly. Merlin pointed out a  broken  wooden  chair leg  that  Gwaine might use as a weapon, and after a quick  batting  test the knight decided it would do. They continued onwards, stepping softly up the stone staircase, scarcely daring to breathe. Any sound they made echoed back in the direction they came and preceded them upwards.

But it was of no consequence, it seemed, for when they reached the landing there was no one there. Merlin and Gwaine exchanged a nervous look. No sentries meant that Lord Brunhilde was confident that they would not escape. The men hoped that sentiment was wrong.

Sticking to the shadows that protruded from the walls just in case of a patrol, Gwaine and Merlin followed the familiar route toward the ballroom. From there they could easily find the servant passageway that led outside.  No one roamed the halls at night, it seemed. It was almost as though they were the only two in the castle, excluding the mouse that skittered in front of them and made them both nearly jump out of their skins. With no further incidents, rodent or otherwise, they found the right door and hurried down the dark hallway.

Dim light filtered in as Gwaine opened the door. During the day it was always propped open, and they had not even considered it might be locked. Good job it wasn't because neither had  though to bring the pin. They peered outside.  As night was wont to do, it transformed their surroundings into an eerie  shadow of what it was in the daylight.  Seeing no one about, they stepped out into the open.

Merlin shivered as the cool air caressed the back of his neck. He really wished that he had his neckerchief. Gwaine stopped abruptly in front of him, and Merlin nearly rammed into him. Luckily, he managed to halt himself, and his friend helped by stretching and arm out and pressing the both of them against the dark wall. A moment later, Merlin heard footsteps approaching. 

They instinctively held their breaths and remained stock-still. Long black shadows, cast by the dim moon, swept over them, and then disappeared around the corner. The heavy boots stamped out of earshot, and only then did they exhale.

After quickly sharing a relieved glance, the friends peeked out of the hiding spot. No one was around. Not even the gate through which they had attempted escape all those days before was watched.  A lucky break? A trap? No matter. They'd already gotten so far, and they'd be damned if they were going to chicken out then! 

Sure that the coast was clear, Gwaine motioned for Merlin to follow him, then seemed to think better of it and grabbed the warlock's wrist with his free hand. An uneasy jolt ran through Merlin's body as he registered the familiar feeling of it all. But it was simply too late to go back. He hoped that this time his gut  feeling was so, so very wrong.

For a few moments, it seemed it was.

Crouching low, they hurried across the grass to the gate, slowing as they approached to be sure there was no one on the other side. There wasn't, oddly enough. No time to question it. Freedom was in the form of a great dark forest, less than a mile from them. 

Casting a quick glance back, Gwaine discarded the makeshift weapon and sprinted off, pulling Merlin along. Merlin kept up rather well, though the foreboding sense never left him. His eyes slipped closed in dismay when Gwaine fell, an exact repeat of their last escape. Inky darkness washed over the backs of his eyelids, and he felt dizzy as the ground left him again.

Sleeping spell, he knew. 

Then nothing.

{MERLIN}

When Gwaine woke, his mouth and head both felt full of cotton and pebbles, neither of which was a good sensation on its own, let alone together. He immediately noticed that he was not chained up this time, and good job, too. He didn't think his wrists would be able to take the strain  after that last time. The skin was even still a little raw to the touch.

The knight  cracked his eyes open and cast his gaze around for Merlin, and with a jolt realized that he was alone in the cell. Well, perhaps  not as alone as he thought. 

"Where's Merlin?!" he angrily demanded, spittle flying from his lips.

Lord Brunhilde, standing safely on the other side of the bars, merely raised an eyebrow. "Pardon, Sir  Gwaine, but who is Merlin? I was under the impression your servant's name is Kestrel."

Gwaine pushed himself onto his feet and stamped over to door, raising his chin defiantly. "It's a nickname," he said  caustically, narrowing his eyes. "Where is he?"

Brunhilde raised his hand, thumb and middle fingers resting lightly together. Gwaine furrowed his brow suspiciously, resisting the urge to back away or grab him through the spaces between the iron poles. The lord snapped his fingers, the  sound resounded crisply.

For a split second nothing happened.

Gwaine nearly loosed his bladder's contents at the sudden scream that rent the air. It was a voice in total agony, shrieking so loudly and so unearthly that Gwaine had half a mind to cover his ears. But then, horrible realization sunk in.

"No!" he shouted, turning his wild eyes to Brunhilde. "No, please!" 

Brunhilde did nothing, and Merlin's screaming continued. The sounds were, if possible, even more horrible than the ones he made when the lord had last inflicted the pain. And they were only intensifying the longer it went on.

"Please!" Gwaine tried again. He sank to his knees and grasped Brunhilde's robes through the bars. "I'm sorry! My Lord, please, stop this madness! It was my fault, all mine. He does not deserve this! Please! I'll do anything!"

After what felt to be an eternity, Brunhilde raised his fingers and snapped them. Merlin broke off into ragged panting, small whimpers intermingling. Gwaine clutched still at the sorcerer's satin clothing, breathing heavily himself. Unshed tears hung in his eyes, but did not fall down his paled cheeks. He swallowed hard at last and slowly raised his eyes to the lord's.

"What is your true name, Knight?" Brunhilde asked. His hand was held up in a snapping position.

Heart stuttering painfully,  Gwaine instantly replied past the lump in his throat, "My name is Gwaine. I swear it upon my mother's life, My Lord."

"And his?"

"It's Merlin," Gwaine said. "I changed it to Kestrel so that if you knew his name you would not associate him with the king. He is the king's manservant, not mine, privy to as much as King Arthur himself knows."

"Why does the king's manservant travel with you?"

"We were on a patrol, the  king and several of his knights and us. We were split up, searching for bandits, and I took Merlin as my partner. We instead ran into the slavers who sold us to you, My Lord."

"Humph." Brunhilde whisked his robe out of Gwaine's grip, and the knight retracted his hands, feeling quite numb. 

"My Lord," he said softly, "may I please attend to him?"

"You and Merlin," the lord replied condescendingly, "shall be kept apart for the remainder of your stays. I had thought that his punishments would dissuade you from another attempt, and so you had promised. A knight such as yourself, who lies and gives false words, should not be given an innocent man as a plaything. I'm sure Merlin would be much more comfortable out of your presence."

Gwaine was paralyzed with shock, shoulders sinking lower with despair. He was not so affected by Brunhilde's insults as he was that he was not to see Merlin. Merlin needed him. He was hurting! Someone needed to comfort him, and since Gwaine was the only one around, it was up to him. But no, the noble had forbidden it, and Gwaine had no means of disobeying.

"Good night."

With that, Brunhilde turned and waddled away, polished shoes clacking against the cold floor. Gwaine glared at the spot where h e had been  standing  only a moment ago, blood boiling. How dare he, the noblesse bastard! But he said nothing until he was quite sure the lord was gone. And then he waited a few beats longer.

"Merlin?" he called softly, wrapping his fingers around the bars. The knight tried to press his face out, struggling to see if Merlin were in a cell near his. He repeated the man's name more loudly, and again, and again.

There was no response but for his echo, sounding wounded and desperate. Merlin was likely unconscious, or - No. He was sleeping, surely. Just because Gwaine couldn't hear his ragged breaths any more meant nothing. 

He shifted into a cross-legged position and prepared to sit vigil. As soon as Merlin woke,  Gwaine would be there to offer comforting words and what he hoped were not empty promises. They would not be able to see one another or touch, but it was the least he could do, and by all the gods above Gwaine would do it.

Easier said than done.

Later Gwaine would claim that a spell had sapped his strength, it must have, but the fact of the matter was that he was purely exhausted, and had a slight concussion from his earlier tumble. He was simply unable to stay awake. In less than  two hours, Gwaine was slumped against the wall, breathing deeply and evenly.

{MERLIN}

Gwaine woke with a start, feeling something was horribly wrong.  His heart was pounding, his throat was dry, and he felt nauseated. He had no need to rub the sleep from his eyes, for there was none. He was utterly awake, and for the life of him he could not think of why. 

Yes, he was in a cell. Not surprising in the least, sadly. He struggled to remember his circumstance of being held captive. He was being held captive, he knew, because this cell was not in Camelot, and he was quite sure he knew the structure of those cells quite well.  (It wasn't his fault that Arthur was such a stickler when it came to paying the tab.) Perhaps he had been on a patrol? That sounded right.

Memories began to slowly return to him. Bandits causing problems, boorish  patrol, Merlin shivering, slavers, burning, running, Merlin,  Lord  Brunhilde the Fat,  crossing the  border,  "I'm sick of taking care of the  bloody horses!".  Gwaine shook his head in an attempt to rearrange the pieces into  their correct sequence and immediately regretted it. With a sharp hiss, he touched a hand to his forehead as though it would stay the pain.  Once the throbbing lessened and he was able to focus, he found that the puzzle had been put together. All his troubles were forgotten in favor of  ascertaining  Merlin's well-being.

"Merlin!" he cried, leaping to his feet and pressing himself against the bars. "Merlin, mate?"

There was no reply.

That was why his subconscious had dragged him back to the world of the living. Something was indeed terribly wrong. Just to make sure, Gwaine called Merlin's name several more times, hoping that he had just been sleeping and would wake and tell Gwaine to shut up. Not even a peep.

Gwaine's mind raced, thoughts  roaring  t hrough his head like  water through a burst dam. Was Merlin unable to reply? Why? Was he sleeping, or unconscious? Was he gone? There was no way he could be dead. Merlin was too Merlin to die. It was simply impossible. Unthinkable. Inconceivable. He wouldn't think of it. He needed to find out what had happened to Merlin.

As if answering his desperation, two pairs of boots began to descend the stairs. Gwaine turned his head in that direction and stood as tall as he was able. When the guards approached, the knight was stony-faced, and looked every bit of the noble that was in his blood.

"Let me see Merlin," he demanded as they unlocked his door.

Both young men regarded him silently, but did not acknowledge him otherwise.  One guard pulled open the door, and Gwaine was ushered forward. The knight immediately made to go farther into the dungeon in search of Merlin, but his arms were grabbed and forced behind his back. Before he could properly fight back, a cold pair of manacles were clapped over his wrists, restraining his arms. 

Didn't stop his head or feet, though.

Unfortunately, Gwaine was a little out of practice in the arts of kicking and head-butting, and the guards, younger and apparently stronger than him, quickly subdued his actions with little effort and herded him toward the stairs. All his demands and requests to see Merlin, or even to hear if he was okay, went unheeded. 

He was dragged in a different direction that usual, so he knew that he was not being put  to work. Good job, too, since he wasn't entirely sure how well he'd be able to scrub with his hands behind his back. Of course, there was also the chance that he was being brought to Brunhilde, in which case Gwaine might not be able to keep himself in control. Hell, who was he kidding? He most definitely wouldn't keep himself under any semblance of control. Another possibility: he could be taken outside and executed. But where would that leave Merlin? 

Gwaine demanded to see Merlin again. When he was ignored, he tried to shove off their holds on him, though his attempts were met with effective resistance. He surmised that these guards were magically enhanced. There was no feasible way that two men as scrawny as them could each have the brute strength of an angry, drunken Percival covered in clotted cheese. He was quite sure that their grips were going to leave hand-shaped bruises on his biceps and forearms. 

After a few more twists and turns down the bare halls, Gwaine realized that he was being brought outside. The chances of his execution escalated, and he began to weigh the odds of his survival after beheading. He hoped that Merlin, at least, would be kept alive and fed, and that he would no longer be punished.

Exiting the main doors through which the slavers had first brought the two of them for presentation and private auction ,  Gwaine blinked the sunlight from his eyes and cast his gaze about. No gallows or pyre, that was good. Chances of execution diminished slightly. There was a line of soldiers standing near the gate, their backs to him. He was being brought there. All the guards had their swords drawn, but they were held down at their sides. Battle royale, perhaps? If so, he hoped he got a good sword. Then he noticed several archers standing atop the walls, looking down on the scene. 

The knight wasn't sure what to think any more.

"My Lord," said one of the guards at Gwaine's side as they approached.

The line of swordsmen parted to allow their passage, and though Gwaine didn't look he knew that they stepped back into position behind them. 

Gwaine was first greeted by the back of Brunhilde's robe, looking extraordinarily stupid in the heat of the day. He was about to start shouting and swinging his feet and spitting and hissing at the disgusting noble, but then he stopped short with the first syllable on his tongue. What started as a word his mother would faint to hear became an overjoyed, "Arthur!"

The blond king gave Gwaine a once-over with his blue orbs, then glanced behind Gwaine as though searching someone out. Of course he was looking for Merlin. Behind Arthur were his ever-loyal knights of the Round Table, swords drawn but held down at their sides like all the other men present.

"As you can see, Your Majesty," simpered Brunhilde, gesturing to a fiery-eyed Gwaine. "He is yet in one piece. If you would please pay the agreed-upon sum of ten  thousand coins, he shall remain so and be relinquished into your custody."

Arthur squared his jaw. "Very well," he said. "You may count it, if you wish, but I assure you it is as you requested." He tossed a rather large purse at the guard nearest to Brunhilde, who caught it single-handedly and proffered it to his lord.

Brunhilde smiled and took the purse, obviously relishing the sound of jingling metal. "Pleasure doing business with you, Your Majesty." He gestured once more to Gwaine, and with a golden flash of his eyes the cuffs automatically fell away. Gwaine was shoved forward, but he stumbled to a halt before reaching his comrades and spun around angrily. 

"They're holding Merlin in the dungeons," he announced loudly.

With his back to them, Gwaine didn't notice the way Arthur and the company's eyes hardened and flashed, the way their postures stiffened. But Arthur, ever the diplomat, stepped forward and placed a restrictive and authoritative hand on Gwaine's shoulder. "Lord Brunhilde," he said, "I am willing to pay an extra ransom for the return of my manservant."

"Apologies, Your Majesty," was the quick reply. "But I am afraid your knight lies, as he seems wont to do."

Arthur's chin became squarer than ever, and his contrary countenance came out in that way Merlin usually mocked or insulted. "Then you wouldn't mind if we take a tour and see for ourselves?"

"You may if you so wish, King Arthur," Brunhilde answered. "But I am sorry to say you shall not find him. You see, a traveling salesman passed by in the wee hours of the morning, and he was interested in buying. I, of course, did not begrudge his handsome offer."

Gwaine felt cold and weak in the knees. If he hadn't felt Arthur's firm grip on his shoulder tighten, he might have said that the young king hadn't reacted at all. 

"You," Arthur's  brow furrowed slightly as though he had been presented with a riddle, "you sold my manservant."

"Yes," Brunhilde answered, feigning apology. "For much more than I had bought him in the first place. I must say, King Arthur, that if you really must find him, you would do well to follow the road to the next village and ask after him. The salesman would be nigh impossible to miss. After all, he leads a white horse, which pulls behind it an iron cage. I hear there are quite a few black markets in the towns."

Arthur's hand twitched toward the hilt of _Excalibur_ , but then seemed to think better of it. He nodded curtly to the lord, then turned and dragged Gwaine back with him. Gwaine gaped at  the cruel Brunhilde, for once at a true loss for words.

The Roundtable Knights followed in Arthur's brisk wake, keeping an eye on the lord's fighters. But no one followed them, and they were allowed their leave. Percival helped Gwaine onto his horse, and they set out immediately in the direction that they had been pointed. No one spoke, and Arthur looked positively murderous. 

Lancelot looked worried and shot several furtive glances to the recently rescued knight; Leon rode at Arthur's side - Merlin's usual place; Percival and  Elyan flanked an unresponsive Gwaine. Elyan  sympathetically  forced a water skin into  Gwaine's hand, but he didn't drink.

As they cantered away from the castle,  Gwaine couldn't help but notice the one horse without a rider.


	4. Chapter 4

 

Chapter 4

There was no trace of Merlin, no lead. Anyone they had asked had either clammed up, denied knowledge, or genuinely did not know. It was maddening. It had been a month, and Arthur had borrowed some lord or other's messenger bird to send a letter to Guinevere, telling her that he would be away much longer than planned, and that everything was all right, and that she should take over for a while. They had not stayed to wait for a reply and headed south.

Tensions were running high in the company. There was such a friction between Arthur and Gwaine that just the fact that Arthur had taken Merlin's lost neckerchief out of his pocket had somehow instigated a fist fight. Leon and Percival had intervened, but not quickly enough to prevent the king from suffering bruised ribs and split knuckles, nor Gwaine from earning a blackened eye and fat lip. After that the knights had made an effort to keep them apart, confining Gwaine to one corner of the encampment or sending him to fetch wood and water, and making him to  bring up the rear when traveling. Arthur tended to keep to himself anyway, brooding over the red  scarf  that had once served to hang around his infuriating but endearing manservant's neck.

A month was a long time. It was a long time to travel from town to town in an enemy's land, constantly hiding their identities to avoid detection or suspicion.  Nothing seemed to pan out. Once they thought that they had been close to finding Merlin, but it had turned out to be a false lead. They had managed to free the young man who had been mistaken for their friend, but as he was not Merlin they quickly moved on, growing more desperate as the days drudged on. 

Leon, personally, was beginning to wonder whether he was dead. But he wouldn't dare to say it aloud. He was quite sure that if he did, he'd be on the receiving end of not only his king and Gwaine's wrath, but of Lancelot's as well. He spared a glance to Gwaine.

The shaggy knight was standing by the horses, absently petting the nose of  BigHeart, Merlin's mare. A ridiculous name, everyone had told him, but he insisted on calling her that because, according to him, she was the sweetest of all the royal horses and it didn't matter that her given name was  Fallenhoof. Soon the horse only responded to  BigHeart, much to the stable hands' and Arthur's annoyance. Leon found it amusing, usually. But recently the horse had only served to remind them that Merlin was gone.

Exhaling heavily through his nostrils, Leon returned his attention to the stew. He had been delegated cook, as next to Merlin he was second best. Another reminder that Merlin was not there, it seemed. He stirred the contents of the pot, wishing that the others would get back already. Lancelot, Percival, and Elyan had been sent down to the town to search. Arthur would have gone himself, but he was convinced that he was just too recognizable. Gwaine was too emotionally unstable, if the way he was muttering softly to  BigHeart was any indication, and Leon was needed to be responsible back at camp. 

They were taking longer than usual. At all the other villages, the three had been back before noon, shaking their heads sadly as they returned empty-handed. Now it was nearing the evening, and Leon was starting to worry. Had they been attacked? They had all only taken a dagger each so as to not draw attention. Had they found something worth investigating? 

He decided that if they hadn't returned by nightfall, he would suggest to Arthur that they go and search for them. The senior knight's uneasiness only grew. They were close to the border of Nemeth, so it could be an escape should they need it. After crossing into their territory, it would be a long trek back to Camelot, but it was better to take a long route in an ally's lands than a short one in an enemy's.

Arthur, on the other side of the camp, suddenly stood up and pocketed Merlin's neckerchief. He unsheathed his sword, focused on the trees near him. Leon, too, stood, prepared to aid his king. The approaching footsteps,  though hurried, were familiar, and both men put away their weapons. Sirs Lancelot, Elyan, and Percival were returning.

Elyan was the first to run into the camp. Without pausing to acknowledge anyone, which was strange in itself, he made immediately for the horses. Upon reaching  BigHeart he opened and rummaged through her bags - Well, Merlin's bags. Lancelot appeared next. 

"Sire," he said, inclining his head shortly. "We need water - warm water - and bandages. And blankets."

By this time Gwaine had turned around. His face had been filled with hope when Elyan came, but upon hearing Lancelot's words he looked drawn and frightened. The things he was asking after were meant to help injured people.  Could it be...?

Arthur nodded and turned, instantly in king mode. "Gwaine, fetch the water, quickly. Leon, help Elyan make bandages." 

Gwaine hesitated only a moment before spinning on his heel and making toward the stream. Along the way he picked up one of the larger  cooking  pots.  Elyan, with an armful of clothes and several blankets, approached Leon, who reached out and helped carry them closer to the fire. Percival at last arrived, carrying a covered, limp figure in his arms.

Hearing a shout behind him, Gwaine hesitated  and turned. He half-contemplated whether to abandon his chore and go back, but then decided that it would be better to get the water. It would be needed, and he was wasting time. So he hurried forward. The stream was only a few feet away from the camp, its lulling burbling filling the clearing nearby. Most times the knight found comfort in the constant noise, but no longer. He didn't deserve the comfort it brought. He had failed Merlin. Sweet, innocent, kind Merlin was helpless and alone because of his own foolishness. Gwaine had hated himself before, but never so severely as now.

He knelt at the stream and dunked the metal pot, filling it to the brim. He hefted it out again, but before setting off again, he seemed to remember something. Gwaine pulled his waterskin from his belt and  gauged its contents. It could use some filling up. Who ever had been injured might like a fresh drink.

Gwaine wasn't delaying. He wasn't afraid. Because Merlin was not the one who needed medical attention. Merlin was probably sitting up in a tower somewhere, whistling while growing his hair out and waiting for them to come fetch him. Normally Merlin would use magic to get himself out of the situation, but he didn't have it, so he couldn't. No, it wasn't Merlin, Gwaine was sure.

At last the skin was filled, and Gwaine had no choice but to cap it and return to camp. So he did.

When he arrived the knights were crowded around a prone figure beside the fire. Arthur was hovering over them, unsure of what to do with himself, but not helping. He looked  horrorstruck . Gwaine carried the pot to the fire, and after removing the forgotten and burning stew placed the water over the flames. Then he sat down and stared at the water to wait for it to boil.

Behind him, it seemed that the king had finally found his voice. "Wh-what the hell happened to him?!" he demanded, though the last few words sounded a bit choked.

"Sire," Percival said, stepping back so that the other would have more room. "If I may."

Arthur searched the knight's sincere features, then curtly nodded. 

Percival took a deep breath, then let it out before starting his story:

{MERLIN}

"Excuse me," Lancelot said amiably, sauntering up to the butcher's table. The man hacking at a rack of ribs paused and looked up at the three men, eyes lingering a bit longer on Percival's massive form. As Lancelot spoke, his eyes returned to his. "We're looking for someone who might help us out here."

The butcher frowned and regarded Lancelot. "Depends on who you're looking for," he said at last. "And what you want."

"I'll just get right to the point," Lancelot smiled, placing his hand on his hip just above his purse. "We're looking to buy the one we're looking for."

The butcher's eyes lit up in understanding. "It'll cost you," he said. "Black market's expensive."

"Yes," Elyan said, nodding eagerly. "So there is a black market here?"

The bloody man studied them once more, and seeming to find them all in order, broke out into a toothy grin. "Sure," he said. "It's good a place as any to hide 'em, wouldn't you say?" With that he laughed heartily, as though he had just told a good joke.

The three incognito knights smiled back, though a bit weakly. Just thinking of all the poor souls behind held beneath the butchery to await their eventual sale - or death - was sickening. But they had parts to play, and they could not afford to lose their chance.

"Come around back," he said, jerking his head to the side of the shop. 

They nodded and obeyed, casting a wary glance around before disappearing between the two buildings. It was a shorter walk than they expected. The slaves must have been kept underground, as they had heard. What appalling conditions.  The knights were greeted at the back door and ushered inside.

"Don't ask my name," said the butcher, "and I don't ask yours."

"Of course," said Lancelot. "Now, we're looking for a specific...type, if you will. A man. Tall, lean, dark-headed."

The butcher stopped for a moment and looked back at them once more. They stared back defiantly. But the man again smiled. "I'm sure I'll find something to your taste. This way."

He led them into the dark bedroom, then shoved a table out of his way. Underneath was revealed a square trap door, which he easily pried open. A wooden stair descended into the darkness below, and a musty smell of damp earth, mold, and squalor wafted up. Percival grimaced, but said nothing and followed them down it.

What they had thought would be a cellar turned out to be a dungeon. There were no walls but for the earth surrounding them, bowed wooden beams pressed against them as a means of support. Water dripped from somewhere, steady and constant. Throughout the room were iron bars, strategically placed to create rows of cages. There were three to four occupants within each one, all cowering as far from them as they could press their scrawny, languid bodies. One woman had begun to sob, seeing that there were three strangers with their captor. They knew someone was going to be sold and never seen again.

The knights were nearly overwhelmed, and only just managed to hold themselves together. 

"I know they don't look like much," the butcher said apologetically, "but you understand that slaves are expensive to keep. I've been feeding them the innards and such from the meat, and the spoilt cuts that nobody bought. But even so, there are a few who think they're too good for it and don't eat."

Lancelot swallowed and struggled to reply, but thankfully he didn't seem to expect one.

"All right, let's see," he said. He marched across the room and grabbed the torch from the wall, then carried it back to them. Now they could see all the filth a bit more clearly. "A tall, dark-headed man is what you're looking for, yeah? I've a couple of them, methinks."

He led them to the right. Glancing back, Percival realized that the women were being held on the left. The woman who had been sobbing had fallen silent, though what that meant Percival wasn't sure. The smell only seemed to intensify the closer they got to the cages. How anyone could live in such condition was beyond them. The animals the man slaughtered and sold met better fates than these people, and were probably treated much better, too.

"There's one there," the butcher said, raising the torch to splay the light across the men in the cage. They shielded their eyes from it with bony hands and arms. The man he had pointed out had shoulder-length hair, so they knew immediately it was not Merlin.

"No," Lancelot said softly.

"All right," the butcher said, not put out in the least. He continued forward, leading them deeper. The room was a lot larger than they had originally perceived, extending to what seemed to be under the neighboring shop. 

Two more men matching their description were pointed out, but neither were Merlin. The knights didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. They were thankful that Merlin was not being kept in such horrible conditions as these poor people, but all the same they had wanted to find him. 

"Well," the butcher said, rocking back and forth on his heels. "There are a couple more, but they're in the very back. That's where I keep the spirited ones. Most buyers  like them in their beds. Don't worry, I train them well, if you're interested in that sort of thing."

Lancelot stared at him for a moment, understanding the implication but not entirely sure if he was being serious. "Show us," he said at last.

Percival wished they would hurry. The smell and lack of oxygen was getting to him, making him feel quite nauseated and dizzy. But if Merlin were here, then he would definitely get him out. Merlin was the last person to ever deserve such treatment.

The butcher led them to the very back. If at all possible, the air quality was even worse than before. There were few men there. They were, after all, the ones kept for some lord or other's bed. Sex slaves. And apparently they had been "trained."

Each of these men had their own cell, though there was still no privacy. Unlike the others, these slaves did not shy away from the light or the butcher. Percival wasn't sure whether it was because they were too weak and exhausted, or no longer cared.

The first man pointed out to them was not Merlin. He had dark skin and had a rather effeminate form. His dull eyes watched them pass. The butcher led them to the very back.

"I've got one last man here that fits your description," he said. "He hasn't been here long, perhaps a few weeks at the most. He was feisty one, for sure, always screaming back and insulting me. Well, I had to beat that out of him, mostly, and tie him down so I could train him. He always fights back, even still, the little bastard."

He stopped at the farthermost cage and banged against the bars. The sound rang eerily throughout the dungeon. "Oi, you!" he barked.

The figure didn't move. He was tall and had messy black hair, but his  back was to them. His clothes hung off his emaciated frame in tatters, and his hands were tied tightly behind his back. Percival could just make out dried blood on the ropes. The man's legs had been drawn up into a fetal position.

"Wake up!" the butcher barked.

"No," shot back a scratchy voice. It was weak despite the defiance and venom in the voice, and his reply didn't seem particularly lucid. Nevertheless, it was unmistakable.

"We'll take him," Lancelot said quickly, shoving his purse at the surprised butcher. He shook the purse to judge its amount, and seemed pleased enough. He wordlessly handed the torch to Lancelot so he could pull a key ring off of his belt.

"I'll just fetch him for you, then," he said. He went into the cell and reached down to grab the man.

"No!" the man gasped out, flinching away. "St-stop."

The butcher ignored him and heaved him to his bare feet, turning to drag him out. Merlin's legs instantly  buckled beneath him,  knees knocking together painfully. Elyan hurriedly stepped forward. 

"I'll take him," he said. 

The butcher shrugged and relinquished his hold. "Yeah, all right. He's yours now, after all."

Elyan took Merlin's weight, and was shocked to feel every one of his bones. His hair had grown a bit longer, but not by much due to malnourishment. From what he could see of him in the darkness, which wasn't much, he was also quite banged up. He wanted to cut the ropes binding poor Merlin's wrists, but he didn't dare break character, not when they were so close.

Percival, Elyan, and Lancelot turned to leave. Merlin appeared to have fallen unconscious from the abrupt change in position. They needed to get out right then, not just to get Merlin free. They had weapons, and didn't exactly trust themselves with them. 

But the butcher followed them closely, carrying the torch he'd gotten back from Lancelot aloft to light the way. He continued to speak as though abusing and starving and raping and selling people were perfectly acceptable past times. "He's stopped eating a few days ago," he explained. "A bit skinny, as you can tell, but that's easily remedied with food, if you see fit to give it to him. I'd suggest making him work for it, though. No sense in making him expect it of you, his masters.

"He's got a pretty face, I didn't hurt it too much. I may have bruised his cheeks a bit, but that was his own fault for trying to bite me. He's learned  the pleasing skill quite admirably, despite all his fighting." He laughed, and with each word the knights' blood boiled more fervently, and it took more and more willpower to not whirl around and draw their blades.  If Percival could have had it his way, he'd have slit the butcher's throat and strung him up for display in his own shop.

"We'll need a blanket to cover him with," Percival said coldly once they had ascended the stairs. The butcher closed the trap door and moved the table back over, then gave the knight a wary glance.

"Of course," he said. 

Before he could move to grab a suitable covering, Percival whisked away the blanket from the butcher's bed. His mouth opened as though to protest, but one glare from the larger man stopped him short, and he shut it again. If he was confused by the tender way Percival wrapped Merlin up before lifting him into his arms, he didn't  voice  it.

They left without looking back. Surely if they did then they would lose their daggers in his vile flesh. Not that it was a bad idea, but it would take time that Merlin might not have.

{MERLIN}

Throughout the story, Gwaine, Leon, and Arthur had listened silently and still. The water had heated soon after Percival had started speaking, and Elyan and Lancelot had quickly set to work cleaning the filth from Merlin's dry skin. His muscles were atrophied from starvation and from disuse, and all his bones jutted painfully.  Dark bruises of various size and stage mottled his pallid skin, highly concentrated around his throat, shoulders, and hips.  Two distinct finger-shaped bruises lined both his cheeks. Open  pressure  sores  on his shoulders and hips  wept yellow pus. One of his lower ribs were cracked, and his wrists were practically flayed by the ropes. His  right  ankle had been dislocated and left unset, leaving the muscles stiff and the foot bent at a painful  angle. There were angry red welts across his scrawny back and  the backs of his thighs that indicated he had been whipped severely. No one mentioned the dried blood  caked  between his legs, originating from a place they knew very well had been brutally violated numerous times.

By the end of  Percival's tale , Arthur's eyes held unshed tears of righteous fury and devastation for Merlin. Gwaine's tears had spilled over as soon as he'd worked up the courage to glance back at the man. It _was_ Merlin who had been hurt. Held captive, and treated cruelly, and so very abused in so many horrible ways. It just wasn't right.

Lancelot, upon discovering that Merlin hadn't  brought spare clothes in his pack, fetched a pair of his own trousers and a clean shirt. Once Merlin had been bandaged up as well as they could under the circumstances, he was dressed, and then wrapped up in several blankets and capes to keep him warm. The rest of the bed rolls were laid on top of one another for a make-shift bed so that Merlin might have some comfort. Night had fallen, and the air  was  chilled with the disappearance of the sun.

Merlin had woken a few hours before, but he showed no sign of recognizing his friends, not even Arthur. He flinched at any sudden movement, at any move toward him. Sometimes he jumped at the natural sounds of the forest or when someone spoke. But mostly he just lay and stared up at the stars, blinking blearily but not really seeing. Somehow he had managed to work a stick-like  arm out of his cocoon of warmth, and had curled his fingers through his hair. They didn't understand the gesture, but they left him to it so as not to startle or frighten him.

The knights discussed what to do. Merlin was in no condition to ride a horse, and there was no possibility that his body could endure the journey back to Camelot. Nemeth was quite close, and their allies would surely give them shelter for a few days, if not more. But they worried that Merlin wouldn't stand that short distance, either. In the end it was decided that they would have to go to Nemeth anyway. Merlin needed medical treatment, he needed a physician, for they had no idea what to do. Once the plan was set, they separated. Leon served the stew he had made, and the six knights forced it down their throats.

Gwaine was unable to finish his cold meal. His eyes were drawn to Merlin, who hadn't moved a muscle - that is, if you didn't count the way his fingers sometimes curled through his dark locks. He wondered why he was doing that. 

Then Gwaine remembered that Merlin hadn't had much to drink, and was probably dehydrated. That was a good excuse to go near Merlin, wasn't it? Gods, Gwaine was selfish, but he couldn't help it. He just wanted to be near Merlin, his best friend, who was so very hurt and in dire need of  help and comfort. 

He grabbed his water pouch and approached slowly and silently, as though he were hunting. The knights noticed him, and then his intentions, and lowered their eyes. Arthur watched Merlin  peripherally, prepared to get Gwaine away from him should  his manservant be come frightened.

At first Merlin didn't seem to see Gwaine, but when Gwaine uncapped the skin it popped. Merlin didn't start, but his  gaze was drawn toward the noise. 

"I'm going to help you drink a bit, mate," Gwaine said softly. 

If Merlin understood he did not show it, nor did he seem to recognize Gwaine. Heart thudding in his chest, Gwaine gingerly reached down and braced the back of Merlin's neck so that he could lift his head. The knight  did not like how cold and bony he felt. Merlin only stared up  and  past  Gwaine, but parted his chapped lips slightly when the  skin was pressed against them. 

He grimaced as he swallowed, as though it hurt, but he drank nonetheless. As Gwaine pulled the water away, Merlin jerked forward as if attempting to grab it back. Gwaine put it back to his friend's lip and let him drink his fill, feeling slightly  relieved that he was actually able to drink more than a sip or two. Once he was finished, Gwaine set the skin aside and gently lowered Merlin back down onto his pallet. 

Merlin's fingers furled through his hair.

Then Gwaine saw it.  Without remembering that it might startle Merlin, he snatched out and caught the louse between his thumb and forefinger. Luckily, Merlin didn't jump, though that might have been because his eyes had finally slipped closed. Gwaine sat back on his haunches and glared at the wriggling little insect, then crushed it mercilessly. Crimson blood stained the pads of his fingers. Merlin's blood. Merlin's hair was infested with  blood-sucking lice. His fingers weren't curling through his hair; he was  trying to scratch his scalp. How had they not noticed it before?

He looked up  to see that the others were watching him questioningly. "Lice," he explained shortly. Arthur looked angry, though it was unclear at whom his fury was directed. The others merely looked saddened  and resigned.

Gwaine sat cross-legged beside Merlin's head. Merlin, eyes closed, was breathing deeply, thin chest stuttering occasionally. He seemed to have finally fallen asleep, for which the knight was grateful. This way he might not be startled. He set to work picking the nits from poor Merlin's hair. Each one he caught he crushed between his nails with a burst of red, glaring at them contemptuously. Merlin didn't stir.

They all knew that it was too much to hope that when Merlin next woke he would be lucid, but they couldn't help it. Merlin always bounced back from everything, no matter what. Merlin was the stronghold, though they would probably not admit that to him. Merlin was the one who defied the rules and brought them together. Without Merlin, they would  have never become brothers. So if Merlin was gone now, where would they be?

The only  acceptable answer was that they would just have to be strong this time. The roles were reversed. Merlin was the one who needed them. They would look after him this time, since they weren't there when he needed them most.

Each of the knights silently vowed to make things right.

If Gwaine, who had first watch, noticed Arthur slip away with a spare short sword in the  night, he said nothing, and in fact might have sent an approving nod in his direction. If Percival, who had third watch, noticed Arthur slip back into camp without a sword, he said nothing either.

And, if someone looked into the butcher's disappearance later and discovered a trap door leading into a slave-sty, and the butcher lying dead at the bottom with a sword through his heart, Merlin and the knights would never know.


	5. Chapter 5

 

Chapter 5

The next morning no one looked any better for what little sleep they had managed to catch.  They all stumbled around camp blearily and stiffly, shoulders slumped and steps slow. Arthur and  Gwaine seemed the worst off.

No, scratch that. Merlin, of course, was the worst off. For all the time he'd spent sleeping, he looked no better at all.  Dark smudges like charcoal hung under his sunken eyes, giving him the appearance of being dead. Despite his obvious exhaustion, they found that they really couldn't wait any longer, and Lancelot was delegated to the duty of waking him and trying to feed him a bit of broth before the journey ahead.

"Merlin," Lancelot whispered, unsure of how to wake him.

Luckily, it seemed to do the trick. Merlin's brow crinkled slightly, and his eyes slivered open a moment after. Lancelot hesitated to touch him, and then thought better of it and  merely  uncapped the water skin. 

"I'm going to help you drink, Merlin," he said. He  then  reached down and lifted his head in the same gentle fashion  Gwaine had the night before.

Merlin drank obediently, struggling to swallow. The cool water seemed to wake him up a bit more. Fever shined in his red-rimmed blue eyes, but he recognized Lancelot.

Lancelot smiled down at him kindly. "Good to see you again," he said softly.

The corners of Merlin's lips twitched upward, but then his eyes widened fearfully. Lancelot frowned in concern. Before he could ask, Merlin was choking out something, "G-G-w'n! In-n Buh-Brun -" He broke off,  heaving  and looking  meaningfully  at Lancelot, who immediately understood.

"Gwaine's safe," he said soothingly. "He's here."

Merlin looked confused.

Lancelot took the opportunity to put the cup of broth to Merlin's lips, but Merlin turned away with a mistrustful glare. "Merlin?"

"Y-you-wuh," he croaked, feebly trying to move away. He couldn't get too far in his weakness and within the confines of his blankets. "St- st -stah-"

The good-hearted knight, alarmed at the sudden change in Merlin's demeanor, set aside the cup and laid  him  back down before scooting back a pace or two. Merlin instantly went  lax, though whether from relief or exhaustion it was unclear. By that time, the attentions of the others had been drawn, and they looked on  uncertainly. At last Gwaine decided to approach cautiously.

"Merlin?" he prompted, kneeling a ways from him.

The warlock jerked his head in his direction, mustering up all his energy to do so. He was momentarily surprised to see Gwaine, but the expression was fleetingly replaced with a sallow scowl. 

"What is it?" Gwaine asked, worried and perplexed. "Don't you remember us?"

"N-not," Merlin spat, "real."

Lancelot and Gwaine exchanged a glance. The others looked on, itching with curiosity  and dread because Merlin's voice was too weak to carry to their ears.

Lancelot asked, "Who's not real?"

Merlin turned his face toward him. "Y-y-ou."

The knight nodded slowly, taking care to hide away his hurt. "Is  Gwaine real?"

"N-none of...th-th-s...real...'S ano'er t-tr'ck..." With that, Merlin's dark  lashes fell to rest on his cheekbones, and he was asleep once more - or unconscious.

The two knights sat back on their heels and looked down at him. Lancelot picked up the stew and tossed its contents out into the grass. Merlin wasn't going to be able to eat it anyway, let alone any of them. He left  Gwaine with Merlin, visibly upset, to give himself something to do. 

Arthur and the others stared at him questioningly, and he took a deep breath to compose himself. "Merlin doesn't believe that we're real. He says we're 'another trick'."

"Another," the king repeated, eyes narrowing  at the word.

Lancelot nodded shortly, then gathered up the cookware and bowls to wash them. Arthur, after a short few seconds of brooding with his arms crossed over his chest, ordered Leon,  Elyan, and Percival to finish packing up the camp, then stalked over to where his manservant lay. He slowed and softened his steps as he approached, but upon realizing that Merlin was asleep he resumed normal pace. Gwaine glanced up a bit tearfully as Arthur knelt on Merlin's other side.

"Gwaine," Arthur said, extending his hand.

The knight furrowed his brow.

"I...apologize for blaming you for all this," Arthur said formally. "I should not have done. If I had treated Merlin better he would not have felt the need to run off with you in the first place. And I would have done the same in your position, were we in it." His hand still hovered over Merlin.

Gwaine slowly shook his head, but clasped his king's hand in his own. "You should blame me. I know all of you do regardless, so don't patronize me, Princess."

Arthur set his jaw and stared defiantly at Gwaine, who after a moment lowered his gaze. "You are not to blame." He looked down at Merlin, and lightly placed his hand on the warlock's  clammy  brow. "And neither is Merlin. The blame lies with those who made him like this. The blame lies with those who would allow things like this to happen, those who would harm others for the joy of it. Good people like yourself and Merlin are the victims. I have come to realize that."

The king, perhaps not so oblivious to Gwaine's inner turmoil as one would think, removed his hand from Merlin's forehead and stood. 

"I think we should take these bed rolls," Arthur said, standing akimbo and looking authoritative, "and furnish BigHeart's saddle with them. Merlin's always complained about not having as much padding as me. I'd like to see him try now. I think I should be  the  one  complaining after this. " 

A small, agreeable smirk tugged at the corners of Gwaine's mouth. Both men would have given the world to hear a retort, even one as simple as "Prat," but none came. Merlin hadn't stirred throughout his master's speech.

He didn't stir when Percival lifted him up. He didn't stir when Percival, with the help of Lancelot, placed him on the padded saddle in much the same position as they had after he was touched by the Dorocha, and strapped his legs to the horse's side for stability. They hoped that it wasn't as painful a position as being draped over it;  any way they might carry Merlin would probably hurt. But as it was they had to make do with what they could. Three cloaks were fastened around his shoulders to keep him warm, and his arms were tucked underneath him. His head was pillowed by BigHeart's  neck.

When the sun peaked over the trees, the king and his Roundtable knights set out with Merlin in tow.  BigHeart was flanked on all sides in a protective huddle, with Arthur in the lead and Percival following up the rear. Gwaine and Lancelot flanked Merlin's sides to make sure he didn't fall or panic if he woke.  Elyan rode off to one side as designated  look-out (though they all knew that was the  polite  term for baggage carrier).  Leon alternated between riding beside his king and by Percival.

They stopped twice to rest, mostly for Merlin's benefit. He had yet to wake since they had begun the journey, but they managed to feed him a bit of water. Merlin wouldn't last much longer without nourishment, though. The group moved slowly - more slowly than any of them would like - but each of them feared that if they were to go at a quicker pace Merlin would suffer. So slow it was.

An hour into their ride they had crossed the border. Relief was minute  all around, for they still had a long way to go. By Arthur and Leon's calculations they would reach King  Rodor's castle by sunset, if there were no complications. Everyone prayed that there be none, if only for Merlin's sake.

{MERLIN}

The turrets of the white stone castle became visible over the treetops first. As they had hoped, there had been no hindrance to their crawling journey. No bandits, no spooked horses for any reason, and no panicking or sick Merlin \- though the latter was because Merlin's eyes hadn't so much as fluttered during the entire trip. At some point Gwaine had taken to making sure Merlin was still breathing at intervals, but as he never spoke up or broke down the others assumed Merlin was still living and getting no worse, and so never asked.

The sun had just set when they reached the gates of the wall, and the guards stopped them. Arthur announced that he was King Arthur of Camelot, showed his  royal seal, and asked to see their physician quickly. The two men agreed, and one  sprinted ahead to inform the doctor that he was needed while the other led them through the streets. 

Few people were outside their homes, as it was supper time when they arrived. Those who were still out politely moved aside to allow their passage, but their eyes burned with curiosity as the Camelot knights passed. The men kept their eyes in front and remained silent.  The only sound was the clopping of hooves on the cobbled streets, and the occasional broad speech of a peasant. The procession was even slower than their arrival had been.

Arthur was the first to spot the Princess Mithian waiting for them on the stone steps. He was momentarily confused, but only his eyes showed it and he was too far yet for her to see it. She seemed to know anyway, or at least felt the need to explain herself: "I heard from the guard who was sent to fetch the physician."

The king of Camelot nodded shortly and dismounted, tossing the reigns to a stable boy who had approached. Mithian lifted the hem of her yellow silk dress and descended the steps to greet them, her brow wrinkled with worry. Her dark eyes were drawn to the only figure who appeared to  be hurt: Merlin. 

"What happened?" she asked, alarmed at his state.

By then the knights had dismounted as well, and Percival was making to carry Merlin to wherever the physician was located. 

"Please, Mithian," Arthur said, "can I speak with your father? I need to ask a favor of him."

She tore her eyes from Merlin. "I'm afraid the king is away  overseas on business," she said. "But I have been left in charge, and you know that whatever it is, you shall have it - within reason."

Arthur nodded. "My manservant," he said. "He is in bad condition, as you can see. I ask that we stay here, for a few days, at least, so that Merlin  might  remain in your physician's care."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Mithian replied. Then she drew herself up. "Come. I will personally see you to the guests' chambers. Merlin will have a room there, too. The physician will join us there." She gave the escorting guard a meaningful look, and with a bow he went to inform the physician.

"Thank you, Mithian," Arthur said, looking very much relieved and a few years younger. The others felt the same. Gwaine felt ready to collapse, but he wouldn't even think of leaving Merlin until he was better. They followed the princess up the steps and through a long hall, then up more stairs. She opened the first door to reveal a lavishly furnished room.

"You can lay him there," she said, gesturing to the bed. Percival didn't hesitate, carefully supporting his head before placing it on the soft pillow. She looked down at what she could see of Merlin, eyes shining with pity. Then she raised them to examine the others for any wounds, but found none. "What in the world happened?" she asked again.

"Slave traders," Gwaine answered quietly,  unable  to meet  her gaze.

Mithian's eyes widened slightly, and she nodded slowly. When she looked back at Merlin her expression saddened. He was such a kind soul, a loyal one, too, and of course he didn't deserve such abuse. 

Their heads turned as the door was opened, and the physician, a middle-aged woman with graying dark hair braided down her broad back, appeared. She was wearing a fine blue dress, though it was well-worn and a bit faded. If any of the men had been acquainted in the arts of sewing they would have noted that the embroidery around the collar and sleeves had been repaired on numerous occasions, but in any case none of them cared about that. All  that the knights and their king had noticed, with immense relief, was the medicine bag carried on her shoulder, and the pile of bandages in her arms. 

"Eirny," Mithian moved forward to greet her. "This is King Arthur, and his knights. His manservant, Merlin, is in dire need of your help."

Eirny's gray eyes were immediately drawn to the pallid figure lying on the bed, and she made toward him. "I'll need warm water," she said, her face a blank mask of professionalism. The woman set the bandages aside, then took off her medicine bag and placed it on the  beside table. The knights moved helplessly out of her way, but did not stray far.

Mithian, after sending the escorting guard on a mission to retrieve water from the kitchens, approached her court healer. "Eirny, do you need anything else?"

"Privacy and quiet," she answered curtly, already peeling back the layers of fabric keeping Merlin warm.

"Of course," the princess said. She gestured to the king and knights, who stared dumbly back at her. "I'll show you all to your rooms."

"I'm not leaving," Gwaine announced instantly. "I'll  st -"

He was abruptly cut off  by  a sock to the face, tossed in his direction by  Eirny after having pulled it off of her patient's foot. "You will leave, as the princess has asked. I will need privacy and quiet, neither of which you will provide if you stay. Be gone." She continued her ministrations without even an upward glance.

Gwaine managed to look humbled, shocked, and indignant all at once, but  shut his slack mouth and conceded.  Mithian gave him a sympathetic look before turning and silently leading them out. The men moved slowly, almost wishing to linger and look after their friend, but they would just have to trust that he was in good hands.  As the princess of Nemeth shut the door and hid Merlin from them, they all felt sick.

"Once she is finished I'll be sure to have you informed," Mithian said consolingly. "Then you can go in and see him. Now, all these rooms are the same, so I suppose you could each take whichever you like. I'll have servants bring up your meals so that you will not have to leave this wing of the castle. You should rest," she said. " Eirny is very thorough and good at what she does."

"Thank you," Arthur  intoned automatically.

Mithian nodded. "If you need me, I shall be attending a meeting in the throne hall." Receiving a nod from the king, she curtsied slightly and turned to do so. 

The men dallied a moment longer in the silent hallway, standing apart from each other. All of them were deep in thought, and worried for Merlin. What if he woke as he was being treated? Merlin was frightened by his own friends at the moment, so how would he react to the presence and touch of a stranger? 

But in the end, there was nothing they could do. If Eirny needed to be alone to treat him, then that was the way it needed to be. None of them wanted to be a hindrance, especially at a time when Merlin needed the treatment most. His situation was dire, his life hung  in the balance. Death with his sickle likely loomed at Merlin's bedside,  watching, waiting.

Leon was the first to move at last. "Sire," he said, addressing his king but speaking to everyone, "we should probably clean up a bit. And try to rest. We're no good to anyone like this."

Lancelot and Percival shared a look. Both men agreed with the senior knight. After a moment, Elyan seemed to rouse himself. Gwaine and Arthur had yet to look away from the door of Merlin's chambers.

"Sire?" Leon asked.

Nearly cutting him off, "Yes, Sir Leon," Arthur said, "thank you." Yet he made no indication that he would be leaving his spot, and Gwaine showed no sign that he had heard anyone speak.

With much reluctance, the knights, with the exception of Gwaine, each chose and went into a  guestroom. Once the last door clicked shut, Arthur's shoulders slumped, and he looked tiredly to his knight. Gwaine started when he clapped his hand onto his shoulder. "We should get cleaned up," Arthur said.

"We should," Gwaine agreed softly. After a brief pause: "What are we going to tell Gaius?"

Arthur froze in horror. He'd completely forgotten that everyone back home would need to be informed of their whereabouts. It was possible to lie for their reasons for being away for so long and for their extended stay at Rodor's castle, but was it wise to lie? When they returned home, would not the truth surface? 

He imagined writing a letter explaining all that had happened over the course of the last month a half. Gwen's  eyes running over with tears would be worse than  Elyan's secretly shed ones, Arthur was sure. And Gaius, after the initial shock of reading about his ward's condition - Would he write back? Set out immediately with his own medical expertise? Tell Merlin's mother?

Oh, Merlin's mother! How could Arthur forget? Would he need to tell her? Would Merlin want her to know? If she did hear, the king was sure she would come to be with and comfort her only child - her only child, whom Arthur had lost, whom Arthur had allowed to suffer. But how could he tell her, she who was like a mother to him, too?

Arthur jolted out of his thoughts when he felt a hand on his shoulder. A look at Gwaine showed that he was thinking torturous thoughts along the same line. 

They stood together, hand on one another's shoulder, for a long few moments,  like  two legs  of a tripod  leaning  precariously  in an attempt to remain upright  despite the broken third leg. They would work together to fix Merlin. 

For Merlin.

{MERLIN}

Merlin felt cold, but not damp, which was strange. Had he perhaps lost the ability to feel the moisture in the earth underneath him?  Had he finally died? 

He heard something rustling nearby, and he focused on it. Another rat, probably. At least it wasn't gnawing on him this time. Unless it had finally eaten away the flesh on his feet and had moved on to someone else's feet. He couldn’t really feel his feet, so it stood to reason that they were gone.

Merlin wanted to move into a different position than the one he was in. If he curled into the fetal position he would be warmer, but every movement hurt. Was he willing to do it? Would whatever warmth he gain be worth the pain and exhaustion that would surely follow? In the end he realized that he couldn’t move even if he wanted to. He was just too bone-tired.

The rustling stopped, much to Merlin's relief. He could slip back into a light slumber. He hoped the others didn't start wailing. The sound was haunting in itself, and contagious. On more than one occasion he had found himself joining the sorrowful, fearful sobbing. He felt ashamed for it, but hysterics were often uncontrollable.

His sluggish thoughts began to disperse as he fell back into unconsciousness.

A hand touching his leg instantly brought him to wakefulness, and he twisted away with a strangled, "No!"

The hand was snatched back, which was as much as Merlin saw before his eyelids slammed shut against the intense light. An ache shuddered its way down his limbs and spine, and his head throbbed horribly. But he knew that the pain would only worsen if his master wanted it to. If his master used him again. The pain of being torn in half, of being rutted into like- like a- he didn't even know - again and again and again and  againandagainandagain -

"P-please," he whimpered, expecting at any moment to be struck or taken by force. It was the way it had been for the years he'd been locked in that dark cave. He wasn't sure how long it had been exactly, as the time bled together, but he knew it was a long time. Arthur and the others had surely given up searching by then, if they had even  looked  to start with. All the dreams his mind tortured him with, of being rescued by his friends, of escaping on his own with his magic somehow returned to him - none of them were real. 

Nothing happened, and Merlin dared to hope that the slave master would leave him be.

"Poor dear," said a quiet voice. 

Merlin's breath hitched in surprise. He hadn't entirely registered the words, but he knew the voice to not be his master's. Had he been moved to a different cage? Had someone been put into his with him? After a moment, and with much effort, Merlin managed to  pry  his eyes open again. 

There was a woman. He first registered her bosom as it came into focus, and then moved his eyes upward. Her dark hair with silvery strands w as haloed by a bright light that burned his eyes. She shifted so that her head blocked out that light, and then Merlin could see her better. Her round face had laugh lines around her mouth and eyes, but she was not smiling. Her eyebrows were scrunched with worry, and her gray eyes pitied him.

Merlin was confused. Where was his master? Why was there so much light? After spending years in the darkness it burned his eyes. Had he been sold at last? 

"My name is  Eirny," said the woman. "Can you tell me yours?"

"M...lin," he whispered.

"Merlin," she nodded as though she had expected as much. "Here, drink this." 

His eyes were drawn to her hands - gnarled and callused, the hands of a healer - as she brought forth a small cup. Eirny's other hand lifted his head for him, as he had spent energy he didn't have, and pressed it gently to his lips. The liquid that was poured into his mouth was a bit sweet, but obviously medicine. Of course it was, she was a healer.

Once he had finished, she set the cup aside and laid his head back down on the pillow. Merlin at last realized that he was lying the most comfortable bed ever. "Listen, Merlin," Eirny said, brushing a few dark locks from his forehead, "you are safe now. You are in Nemeth, in King Rodor's castle. Your  king, Arthur, brought you here."

As she had spoken, hope swelled in Merlin's breast. He'd been saved at last! But then she had said Arthur's name, and his world crashed down around him again. It was another dream. Of course it was a dream. After years and years of captivity, how likely was it that Arthur would find him? He would have stopped looking ages ago. He had a kingdom to run, of course.

Merlin nodded slowly. He welcomed the respite from the pain, but the content of his dreams were beginning to become  more unacceptable, more improbable. He, feeling dizziness that probably came from the horrible air quality in his earthen dungeon  rather than the  potion he'd drunk in his dream, allowed his eyes to slip closed, and he was asleep once more.

In his condition the mild pain  draught knocked him right out, and Eirny continued to tend to his broken body. She had already bandaged his feet, which were riddled with  rodents' teeth marks. His ankle had been rudimentarily set, possibly by one of the knights, but as they were not experts in any sense of the word it had been done incorrectly, and it had taken much twisting on her part to get it right.  Eirny  had  bound it tightly to keep it in place and to dissuade any more swelling.

It wasn't until she had begun working on the man's legs that he had stirred slightly, and then woken abruptly at the touch on his thigh. His cry had startled  Eirny, who immediately retracted her hand and moved back. Merlin went still again, brow furrowed and breathing raggedly. When it became apparent that he wasn't going to speak or look at her, she examined his leg as closely as she could without touching to see what had made him react so badly. At first she saw nothing but inflamed welts and a few yellowish bruises, but as her eyes traveled farther up and between his naked legs she saw the smear of blood. She had seen such indicatives before, but never on a man. Eirny straightened up with a sigh, "Poor dear."

At the sound of her voice Merlin wakened again, and she gave him the pain relief. The healer carefully rubbed ointments onto his emaciated legs and wrapped them as she had his feet, and then rolled him over onto his side. She pushed his knees up toward his chest so that she could easily treat the damaged orifice. Such an injury, however, was nearly impossible to bandage, and so she had the ingenious idea to stop the sluggish bleeding by inserting a bit of herb-soaked cotton - after all,  some  women used this method once a month. 

That finished, she worked the covers out from underneath his too-thin body and covered his lower half. He had begun to shiver some time before, but that couldn't be helped much yet.

Her eyes raked over his frail form, ribs shuddering with each inhale. Just over his belly button was a strange brand symbol, the likes of which she had never seen before. All around the scar tissue was rough and tender skin, as though it had been rubbed away by a serrated edge. It was one of his older and less serious wounds, but without sufficient rest and food it had not healed well. She smoothed a salve over it and moved on. 

She knew from her initial examination of him that he had a broken rib, but that would have to wait until she had finished with the rest of him. Besides that his back was covered in painful welts and his shoulders had pressure sores, which were infected. After heaving yet another sigh, Eirny decided that it would be best to wrap up his wrists, then move down to his shoulders. Then she would spread ointments on his back, wrap his torso, and finally bind his ribs. Plan set, Eirny gathered her supplies about her. By the end of this, she thought to herself, she would need a bit more of everything.

It took her a while longer to complete his treatment, but he was still far from all right. Merlin was starving. She wasn't sure his stomach would be able to handle any food. Yes, she'd seen many a starving soul, and most could not keep solids down without complications. Merlin would have to be kept on a diet of broth at first, but with just that he might not get well enough to graduate that. Some people just weren't strong enough, and Merlin was injured badly besides. If he did recover, the journey would be long and hard for him.

At last Eirny stood straight and packed up what little remained of her medicines. The warm water she had sent for had long since cooled, and was  now soiled. She would have someone take it out when she left. The  healer  glanced out of the window. The moon had risen high in the inky sky, and she suddenly realized how exhausted she was. She suspected the king and his knights had retired by then, and she was ready to do so herself. But someone would have to sit with Merlin to be sure nothing happened.  Eirny made sure that the blankets were tucked securely around Merlin's body, then turned to leave. 

The woman nearly leapt out of her skin as she opened the door. Gwaine looked up expectantly at her, eyes rimmed red. She noticed that his hands, which rested on his knees from his forlorn place on the floor, were shaking. "Are you  all right , Sir...?"

"Gwaine," he said, pushing himself up quickly. "Is he...?"

Eirny raised her eyebrows and glanced back over her shoulder. "You mean Merlin?" she asked. "You've been waiting out here this whole time, Sir  Gwaine?"

Gwaine nodded at both her questions.

"He's sleeping," Eirny said, observing him. It was strange to see a noble so worried about a servant. She surmised that he must have been in some part responsible or Merlin's condition, resulting in an overwhelming sense of guilt on his part. Whether that was true or not, Eirny thought it refreshing to see one of a higher status inquiring after the health of one lower than him.

Gwaine nodded again, looking lost. "May I...?"

Eirny stepped aside and gestured for him to enter. He moved forward, but then paused at the threshold.

"Sir  Gwaine?"

He looked at her. "King Arthur wishes to meet with you tomorrow," he said. "He wants to discuss his manservant's condition and treatment...Things of that nature."

"Of course," Eirny said, bowing her head.

Gwaine nodded once more, then turned and entered the room. Eirny watched his back as he approached Merlin lowly, then closed the door. Whatever went on was none of her business. 

Merlin was sleeping apparently peacefully. Only a slight furrow in his brow betrayed any discomfort - aside from the hollowness of his face above the heavy blanket. The knight stopped a few paces away from his dear friend, burning tears hanging on his lower lashes. He stared without really seeing, his gaze roaming Merlin's sickly form even though it was hidden under the bedclothes. There was a chair nearby, but Gwaine made no move toward it. 

"I'm so sorry," he choked out. "I'm so sorry, Merlin. This never should have happened. I'm sorry, so, so sorry."

Unable to continue, Gwaine's breath caught in his throat, and his tears fell once more. He raised a hand to stifle his sobs. After a moment, the knight managed to regain some semblance of control and sank to his knees at Merlin's bedside. He stared hard at his hands in his lap, listening to the comforting sound of Merlin's breathing.

Then: " 'S'not...yuh...r..."

Gwaine's head snapped up so quickly that it might have flown off had it not been attached securely to his neck. "Merlin!" 

Merlin's eyes were still closed, but he was obviously aware of his surroundings - or at least of Gwaine's presence. He seemed to  be  struggling to pronounce the word 'fault,' but  Gwaine was too overjoyed to see Merlin awake again to say anything but "Merlin!"

After the third repetition of his name Merlin stopped trying to finish his sentence and cocked his head in Gwaine's direction. 

"Merlin, mate," Gwaine said again, raising and lowering his hands in a subconscious battle. "Are you - I mean, how are you feeling? Are you in pain? Should I fetch Eirny - the physician, I mean?"

Merlin's brow furrowed more intensely but then relaxed again. "I..." He took a shuddering breath and ran a tongue like sandpaper over his lips. "I f-feel...goo...d." The warlock smiled wanly before his face fell. Despite his claim he was obviously tired.

"Good, good," Gwaine nodded emphatically even though Merlin couldn't see him. Then he noticed the water on the bedside table. "Here," he said, standing. He poured some water from the pitcher into the goblet. "I'll bet you're thirsty."

Gwaine snaked an arm behind Merlin's scrawny shoulders and lifted him just enough so that he could drink easily. Once Merlin had had his fill (only a few sips this time), Gwaine laid him back onto his downy pillows. 

Merlin sighed quietly. "I  mi...ssed you- wuh ... Gw'ne."

The knight smiled sadly. "I missed you, too, my friend."

"H-how man...y...years-uh...'ave pass'd?" Merlin asked.

"Huh?" Gwaine looked startled. "How many years have passed since what?"

"Sin...w-we s-...saw each o'er."

Gwaine looked stricken. "It's been one month, Merlin."

"No," Merlin breathed. "Years."

Gwaine shifted forward, shaking his head negatively and looking as though he might start crying again. "No, no, mate," he said. "Look at me, please. Open your eyes. Look at me."

The warlock made a feeble attempt to do so. "C-c-can't-uh."

"Yes, you can," Gwaine said firmly but gently. He place his hands lightly on either side of Merlin's head. "Please, for me. Look at me. It has not been years, my friend. It was a month. A long, horrible, god-awful month that only felt like years."

As Gwaine had spoken, Merlin struggled to part his eyelids. The light this time was not blinding because Gwaine's head, hovering over Merlin's face, blocked much of it out. After a moment, he managed to keep them open long enough to focus.

Tears pricked Merlin's eyes as he saw that Gwaine looked relatively the same. Yes, he looked older, but that could easily be attributed to how sorrowful he looked. If Gwaine really had been older, he would appear to be older still  in that regard. But as it was, Merlin felt suddenly inclined to believe him, mostly due to the overwhelming desire for it to be true. He wanted so badly to be saved, to be with his friends again. He wanted nothing more than to return home, to Camelot, with his friends and his mentor, Gaius. Gods, how he missed them all.

Gwaine seemed to understand his thoughts, or perhaps Merlin had said some of it aloud, because his thumbs stroked Merlin's prominent cheekbones as he spoke reassuring words. "We will go home, Merlin," he said, "as soon as you're well again. I promise you, my friend. Just recover, and we will go back to Camelot. We're in Nemeth now, which isn't too far. It's a sennight by carriage, and we'll be taking horses so it'll be shorter a time than that. Gaius and Gwen will be waiting there for our return. We'll go as soon as you're well again."

Merlin wasn't sure when he had begun to cry, but he was suddenly aware of it. It was probably the reason Gwaine had started rubbing circles with his thumbs in the first place, to wipe the wetness away.  With Gwaine's soft voice in his ears, Merlin allowed his eyes to drift shut again, and in a matter of seconds he was asleep.

Gwaine remained at his side, gently massaging his bruised face. Though Merlin's eyes were still wet, he looked more peaceful than ever. He looked as though he felt safe, which was precisely how Gwaine wanted him to feel, for he was indeed finally safe.

{MERLIN}

At noon the next day, Arthur and Eirny met in his chamber. Mithian was present as well, and Leon had been left to watch over the still sleeping Merlin while the others attended the meeting. Leon would be filled in later, of course.

There were customary greetings, and Arthur laid out what it was he would like to discuss: Merlin's condition, what Eirny suggested would need to be done to regiment his condition, and whether anyone or thing should be sent for during their stay. Gwaine secretly believed that Gaius should be sent for, as he was Merlin's mentor and father-figure, but kept his mouth shut. It was not the time to bring it up in any case, but he would certainly mention it to the princess - King Arthur  the  princess, of course. 

The men (and Mithian) had listened patiently as Eirny described Merlin's wounds and abuse. At the mention of his sexual abuse several pairs of eyes were closed in dismay. They had already known it deep down, but had wanted it to be false. She continued with the burn tissue, how it looked as though Merlin had tried to tear it off or scratch it away with his own nails, but the scar had been undamaged, unlike the skin around it. Lancelot and Gwaine both frowned deeply at this, but neither noticed the other. Eirny was saddened to inform the knights and king that Merlin would face lasting damage, both physically and mentally, and that his recovery would be long and hard. 

At last Eirny finished her list and paused so that the others could process the information. Arthur asked what would need to be done to help him recover quickly, and when she thought it might be safe to move him back to Camelot.

"Likely not any time soon," she said solemnly. "Besides his injuries, his body is extremely weak and susceptible to all manner of illness. He can hardly move on his own as it is. He'll have to get his weight back up, but that's easier said than done. He will not be able to eat solid foods  for a while. I'll make sure he's given the best broth the kitchen has to offer, but even so it will be hard on him.

"As for his wounds, healing will be slower. As I said, his body is too weak to do much for itself. It will take time and care - a lot of it, Sire."

Arthur sighed. "I see. Thank you, Eirny." Then he turned his attention to Mithian. "How long might we stay here?"

"As long as it takes for Merlin to get well," was her instant reply. "I'll not have any of you leave Merlin here, least of all alone. I think he'll need all of the support he can get."

The king nodded agreeably. "Thank you. I must write to my wife. And to Gaius." He suddenly looked troubled and uncomfortable - understandably, too. No one wanted to be the one to tell Gaius what had happened to his precious ward. Gaius was not often angry, but they were sure to face his wrath at one point or another.

"You should send for Gaius," Mithian exclaimed. She turned to Eirny quickly and placed a hand on her arm. "Gaius is court physician of Camelot, and Merlin's uncle. I'm sure if he comes here then Merlin might get well sooner, don't you?"

Gwaine was rather impressed by her, but still kept quite silent.

Eirny nodded. "I think that would be an immense help, if he can spare the time. Does he have someone who might take over for a time?"

"I'll be sure to ask in my correspondence," Arthur interjected. "Guinevere, I reckon, can run Camelot for a while longer. I'm sure either she or Gaius can find someone to do his rounds and to watch over his apothecary."

"Very well," Eirny said. "Will that be all, Sire?"

"Yes," Arthur said. "Thank you." He gave her a short, respectful bow, and she returned with an inclination of her head.

"I will go and tend to Merlin now."

The knights stepped out of her way, and she ambled past without sparing a glance to them. It wasn't out of disrespect by any means. She was simply in a hurry to check on him. He could take a turn for the worse at any moment, and with thick-headed nobles watching over him it was unlikely that they would catch it. Eirny had been feeling a little anxious about her  patient ever since she wakened a few hours ago, but it was only now that she had the time to go to him.

Merlin's rooms were directly across from his master's, so it was a very short walk. When she entered she found Leon sitting in the chair at Merlin's bedside, and Merlin appeared to be sleeping relatively easily. But appearances could be deceiving.

Leon stood as she came inside. 

"Oh, don't bother with me," she said. "I've just finished up my part of the meeting at any rate, and I'll of course need some quiet and privacy to change Merlin's bandages. Why don't you go and join the others, Sir?"

"Of course," Leon said good-naturedly. He started off, but then just as suddenly stopped again. "I'm by no means a physician," he said, slight concern creeping into his expression, "but I think Merlin is feeling a little hot."

Eirny blinked at him and sighed inwardly. "Thank you, Sir," she said. "I shall look into it."

He nodded approvingly and went on his way.

Eirny knew her bad feelings were never to be taken lightly. If Merlin had developed a fever at this stage, it was all the more dangerous for him. She set her things on the chair Leon had abandoned and moved it aside so that she had complete access to the damaged manservant. First she pressed a hand against his forehead.

"Fogging bum-bailey!" she cursed under her breath.

Merlin had a fever, and though it wasn't very high it was almost certain that it would rise. She immediately opened her medicine bag and rummaged through it, searching out the tonic she knew that she had brought. Her foresight was  not  entirely accurate, but it was enough that she knew if she felt something wrong, something very well would be. She'd thought ahead and brought practically everything from her shelves.

If the draught didn't work, they'd have to blood let. In Merlin's mental state she didn't think that would go over too well, but if all went well...

Since his head was already propped up on the pillows, Eirny unstopped her fever tonic and pressed it to his lip. She waited for his lips to part open before pouring it in, and he swallowed. Once she had finished  bandaging his wounds she would check his temperature again. She hoped for the best, of course.

It was only a matter of a couple of hours before she finished changing the linens. His fever should have reduced by then, but it only seemed to have risen. Eirny sighed heavily and stroked the poor boy's dark locks. She would have to bleed him. But first she would have to inform the king, his master. It was not going to be pretty if Merlin decided to wake up. He hadn't much stirred when she was redressing him, but bloodletting was a bit of a painful procedure.

She got her things ready before going to ask Arthur permission to do the procedure. She would do it anyway, if he declined, but it was better that they knew it was going on so they didn't burst in if Merlin screamed. Although she might need help for this one.  Merlin was weak, but pain and fear led to adrenaline rushes, and it would not surprise her if he tried to fight her off. That could end up damaging him even more.

As Eirny had thought this her feet had taken her to the king's door, and she knocked purposefully. 

"Come," called Arthur, slightly muffled. 

Eirny opened the door and saw that King Arthur was not alone. He was sitting at the desk, apparently still at work on the letters he would be sending back to Camelot. His knights were all seated at the table, looking to her expectantly.

Arthur put his quill into the  ink well and stood. "Ah, Eirny," he said. "May I help you?"

She clasped her hands respectfully in front of her. "I am afraid I've a bit of bad news. I need to discuss it with you."

The men instantly looked worried, and the seated knights stood abruptly.

"Please come in, then," Arthur said quickly. "It is Merlin, isn't it?"

"Yes," she said, still pausing in the doorway. "I must speak with you about a treatment I will need to administer." Her gray eyes flickered to the knights and back to the king meaningfully.

Arthur didn't miss it. "Whatever you have to say, it can be said in the presence of my men. I trust them each explicitly, as does Merlin."

"Very well," she said, hiding her surprise well. "He has developed a fever. I gave him a tonic for it just before I changed his bandages, but it did not help. I will have to reduce his fever in another way."

"Which is?" Arthur frowned nervously.

"Bloodletting," Eirny replied. 

The men shared a look of alarm, and the king dragged a hand down his mouth. "Is...Is there really no other way?" he asked.

Eirny shook her head. "I'm afraid not. It must be done, or he could very well overheat."

Arthur sighed. "Merlin just can't do anything right, can he?"

Gwaine stepped forward, eyes shining. "Someone should be with him as you do it," he said. "He'll be frightened."

Eirny hesitated. "I will need someone to hold him down. In his state..."

"I understand," Arthur said. "I will be present. He is my servant, after all."

"I'll be there," Gwaine said. "He is my friend."

The physician held up a hand before any of the other men could volunteer. "Very well," she said. "I hope you are prepared because it needs to be done as quickly as possible. I have the things I need in his room."

Arthur and Gwaine exchanged an uneasy glance, but they nodded and followed her out. The knights who remained did not move. They watched the trio leave solemnly, hearts aching for poor Merlin.

Eirny led her new assistants back across the hall. The door stood open as she had left it, and they could see Merlin's smaller than usual form on the bed. They didn't dare hesitate. If Merlin needed it, he needed it. There was nothing to be done for it. Arthur had never felt so bad for Merlin - not even when he had been dying of the poison meant for the then prince.

But there was no cure that Arthur could go out and search for, not this time.

Gwaine and Arthur stopped at Merlin's bedside and looked down at him. He was breathing steadily, eyelashes laid firmly against his cheeks. But his brow, covered with a sheen of sweat, was creased with discomfort. They reluctantly raised their eyes to Eirny, who was  readying her materials: a rather large bowl, several clean  cloths. a long strip of linen, and - a knife.

Arthur felt his heart stutter. Gaius had always used leeches when someone suffered from severe fever. He had once mentioned in passing that in emergencies he'd had to use a knife, but the young king wasn't entirely sure that this constituted an emergency quite yet. Just as he opened his mouth, Gwaine spoke up with the exact question that had been on his lips.

"Wouldn't leeches be a better alternative?"

Eirny glanced up. "I don't have leeches, Sir," she said. "A knife is quicker and more effective in any case." Then she lowered her gaze and extricated Merlin's right arm from the covers. Her hand pushed up his nightshirt sleeve, revealing his snow white skin. 

Both men felt sick, knowing that it would soon be marred with red.

But it had to be done. 

"One of you will have to hold his shoulders," Eirny said. "The other his legs - but his lower legs, if you please."

Gwaine, who was already standing closer to Merlin's head, tentatively placed his hands on the warlock's childlike shoulders. Arthur resignedly put one knee up on the bed to get better leverage, and then gripped just below Merlin's knees  over the blankets.

Eirny picked up Merlin's arm and positioned the bowl beneath it, then put one of the  cloths between her hand and his skin to soak up the excess. Her fingers curled tightly around his wrist, and Merlin stirred at that. Gwaine felt as though he were going to vomit.

The physician didn't hesitate. With a practiced eye and hand she placed the sharp tip of her knife to one of the blue veins on the soft flesh of his arm. Then, after making sure of her grip, she put  substantial pressure on the blade and began to drag it down slowly and precisely.

Merlin's reaction was instant.

With a short cry of  distress, he twisted in their grips. Arthur and Gwaine, both surprised, adjusted their holds quickly and held him still. It only served to heighten Merlin's panic, and his eyes flew open, wide and unseeing. Short bursts of hysterical and pained cries came from his mouth, and his wild gaze locked onto the hand cutting him. 

"Please!" he gasped out, struggling. Tears began to fall hard and fast as he looked into Eirny's impassive face. "I-  st \- ah!"

At last she had finished the cut, and blood dribbled from it in rivulets, draining into the bowl. She set the knife down, but did not relinquish her hold on him. Of course it was obvious, in Merlin's mind, that they were bleeding him to death, and it was sufficient cause to panic. His only conceivable option of self-perseverance was to appeal to his captors.

"Please, please," he whimpered to Eirny. She was entirely too focused on judging the amount of blood in the bowl, and thus ignored him.

Gwaine, realizing that Merlin had stopped fighting, quickly freed one of his hands and stroked Merlin's  burning  head in a comforting gesture. "It's all right, mate," he said. "We're just trying to help. You've come down with a fever."

Merlin turned to Gwaine, breathing hard and fast. He was nothing if not scared and confused, and he recoiled upon recognizing Gwaine. "No!" he choked out, looking more upset than before. "No - n-no! P-please! I d...I d-don't-tuh w-wan...die! " He began to sob in earnest and renewed his efforts of escape so that  Gwaine had no choice but to hold him down again.

"Merlin!" Arthur tried. "Merlin, you're -"

Merlin's only response was to scream, punctuating each one with a heaving sob and gasping for breath in between. Nothing would console him.

This continued for another two minutes, until Eirny had decided he had lost enough blood to cool him off, and quickly wrapped his new wound tightly. She whisked the bowl and knife away, and rummaged through her medicine pack for a sleeping  draught. While  a shuddering Merlin was caught up in the sudden relief and confusion of having the blood flow stemmed,  Eirny tipped the contents of the vial into his mouth. He swallowed instinctively, but otherwise did not react.

"He should be all right now," Eirny said brusquely.

The men took that as their cue that they should release him, and they stumbled back hastily, pale and shaky. Both were visibly upset, although Arthur tried to hide his feelings by crossing his arms and setting his jaw. His eyes, though, were as wet as  Gwaine's, and his ears rang just as loudly.

"I'll come back to check on him in about an hour,"  Eirny promised. She quickly took her leave, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click.

The sound was enough to draw Merlin's attention away from his arm. The shadows underneath his eyes were darker than ever, and the tears had mixed with his sweat so that they were indistinguishable. His eyes themselves looked dim and haunted.

"Merlin, mate," Gwaine started forward.

Merlin flinched violently, an expression of pure terror crossing his face. Arthur quickly pulled Gwaine back, though the knight hadn't needed any prompting. 

"I'm so sorry," Gwaine uttered miserably, hands out to his sides. "You're sick, Merlin. We were just helping you, my friend."

Merlin stared at them for a moment longer, then looked back at his arm. Slowly, he extricated a shaky hand from his covers and gingerly touched the reddening bandage. Then his hand traveled up to the pillow and curled through his hair.

" 'S'not real," he whispered tearfully, face turned away from them. "Not real...not real...not real..."

That was the moment Arthur finally broke down.


	6. Chapter 6

 

Chapter 6

Over the next few days, Merlin steadily grew better, more trusting. 

Of course, he spent about eighteen hours each day sleeping, but that was perhaps for the best.  When he was awake, he was usually being made to drink some water or broth. It was kept on standby since Merlin refused to be roused by any means, and would wake whenever he felt like it. This meant that at least one knight had to be present at all times, ready to first comfort him from any remnants of nightmares and to assure him that he was safe, and then to feed him until he drifted off again. At any given time he was awake it was hardly for more than ten minutes.

Slowly but surely Merlin began to believe that his surroundings and friends were real. Lancelot and Merlin, of course, would certainly not mention that it was because Lancelot asked about his magic. And it was at that time that Lancelot discovered, finally, why Merlin could not escape. He had suspected that the brand had had something to do with it, but he was shocked to discover that his friend's magic had been completely blocked off. It had only made  Merlin ill for the first few hours after receiving it, but his physical body had adjusted to its disappearance - or something like that.

Meanwhile, Arthur had hurriedly sent off the letters explaining their whereabouts and what had happened. In Guinevere's letter, he had given as minute details as he possibly could - They were  safe in Nemeth while Merlin recuperated from some injuries he had sustained, and it might be a bit before they could head back again. Gaius's letter had nearly killed him to write. After several wasted sheets of parchment, Arthur finally decided to put it as such: They were safe in Nemeth while Merlin recuperated from some injuries he had sustained, and it might be a bit before they could head back again, and would it be possible that Gaius could come to Nemeth to be with Merlin because he was not so well and was being difficult in his pain and disorientation - Which wasn't exactly a lie, was it? But it was as much detail as Arthur could force himself to spare. It was unfair to Gaius, he knew, but he also knew that it wasn't entirely too wise to put such personal information into written words.

Or he was a coward.

But in any case, he had gotten nearly instant replies via a Nemethian hawk from Camelot's aviary. Both stated their concern for Merlin's well-being and for the others (Gwen thought to ask after  Rodor and Mithian's health as well), and expressed their desire for their speedy and safe return. On Gaius's part he was unable to come at the moment, having to deal with a small epidemic in Camelot, but said to tell Merlin to behave or Gaius would make sure all his tonics tasted worse than usual. Arthur didn't have the heart to relay that particular message to Merlin, but did tell him that Gwen and Gaius both wished him well soon and would be waiting for their return.

At the moment Gwaine and Arthur happened to be sitting quietly in the padded chairs that had been brought into the room. They were situated on either side of the bed, with Gwaine closer to the windows and Arthur to the door. Merlin had yet to wake since they changed shift with Lancelot and Percival.

Gwaine studied Merlin. His face had regained some color, and his fever had greatly reduced. In fact, it looked as though it had finally gone completely. The bags under his eyes hadn't gotten any worse, and if he stared long enough he was sure that he had improved. Underneath the covers Merlin's wounds had begun to heal, and the infections had been purged, thankfully. Merlin was finally a little comfortable, no longer in pain.

When Eirny had last come to visit she had brought with her a loaf of bread with the instruction that he should have it with his  broth, but only a few bites. If his stomach could hold it down, then he was to be given a bit more each time he woke. This would build up his strength, hopefully.  The fire they had lighted in the grate would also make sure he didn't feel the chill. Merlin was still skin and bones as it was. Arthur was feeling very impatient with the whole situation - he just wanted to take Merlin home, more than anything. He knew that he always felt better when he could recover in his own bed, so he was sure Merlin would feel the same. Not that he'd admit that he was taking Merlin's feelings into consideration. That was preposterous.

Almost as though Merlin knew  that Arthur was thinking about him, he shifted slightly and cracked his eyes open. "A'th'r."

"Yes, Merlin."

"Th-they...too...k...th't d-dag...r."

Arthur pulled a face. "What on earth are you babbling about, Merlin?"

Gwaine spoke up, "The dagger you gave him before we set out. The  'traders' stole it. You know, like my armor and sword."

"Ah," Arthur said, returning his attention to a drowsy Merlin. "Then I suppose I'll just have to get you a new one. It's no matter."

"It _is_ matter," Merlin insisted, eyes widening slightly. "You- wuh...gave it t-to me."

The king regarded his manservant for a long moment. "Don't be an idiot, Merlin. It wasn't even expensive."

Merlin scowled. "P-prat."

Arthur managed to contain his sudden grin to a smirk. "Clotpole."

"Th-that's my word."

"Well, I'm your master, so I can take whatever I want from you, Merlin. You should know that by now."

Merlin's smile faltered a moment, but then it reappeared, this time forced. Arthur suddenly realized his choice of words and started to backtrack desperately, but Gwaine intervened. 

"Here," he said, quickly grabbing the cup of broth. "It's still a bit warm, I think. And look, you've got some fresh, delicious bread to go with it, eh?"

It was a quick and efficient distraction, especially since Merlin had slowly been regaining his appetite.  A thin, shaking hand snaked its way out of Merlin's warm cocoon and took the piece of bread  Gwaine had torn from the loaf. Arthur folded his arms across his chest and leaned back. It was strange to watch Merlin eat - It was something he'd normally given very little thought to, other than the occasional insight that Merlin was too thin. The king resolved to make sure Merlin ate three meals a day, even if he had to share his own food. Thinking back, Arthur had noticed that Merlin often swiped some of his sausages or a roll, so he practically did share already. Hm.

At that particular moment there was a light knock on the door, and Mithian appeared. The king and knight stood, and Merlin looked as though he wanted to do the same, but Gwaine pushed the broth cup at him and told him to drink slowly. The invalid warlock scowled and managed to clutch it tightly enough to prevent himself from spilling it down his front, and his companions approached Mithian.

"How is he?" she asked quietly once they were standing before her.

"Better," Arthur answered just as Gwaine replied, "He could do with a bit of mead, if you ask me."

Mithian smiled. "Good. I am glad. But I'm afraid we're fresh out of mead at the moment, Sir  Gwaine."

"Is there some matter you wish to discuss, Princess?" Arthur asked before Gwaine could express his despair .

"Well, it has come to the attention of my knights that you are here," Mithian said with an amused chuckle. "They are impressed by the stories they've heard of you, and some are asking after a demonstration on your part. Of course, if you're not up to it..."

Arthur was very much aware of Merlin's curious stare boring into the back of his head. They had been speaking quietly enough so that Merlin was unable to hear, even with his overly large ears. The king smiled. "Of course I'm up to it, Mithian," he said boldly. He had raised his voice so that Merlin could not possibly miss his words.

Her eyebrows went up at the change in tone, but she quickly caught on. "Well, it just so happens that they're waiting for your arrival this instance, King Arthur."

"Very well," he drawled. "I suppose I shall grace them with my presence and floor them with my skill."

"Very good, King Arthur," Mithian curtsied.

Arthur spun on his heel, facing Merlin with an incredibly bored expression. Merlin's eyes shined curiously - a great change from their previous dullness. "Merlin, I'm afraid I must show Nemeth's knights how to fight properly. Unfortunately, from what I've seen they're even more useless with a sword than you are."

Merlin mocked offense, raising his head slightly from his mound of pillows. " 'S a wonder Ne...meth is  st -still  st -standing." Then his head dropped back down, all his energy reverted to holding his cup.

Arthur nodded approvingly. "For once, you may be right, Merlin. I'll be back, probably." With that he and Mithian left, the latter giggling into her hand. Gwaine grinned at their backs, glad to see Merlin cheered up at least a little.

When he turned back to Merlin, though, he was staring down at the broth.

"Something wrong, mate?"

Merlin slowly lifted his eyes to Gwaine. "I...don't like this." His cheeks flushed a little, and he averted his gaze.

Gwaine, startled at first, laughed. Merlin looked offended and a bit shamefaced, but still did not meet his friend's eyes.

The knight's grin didn't fade one bit even as he took the cup and looked down at it. It was a bit cold, then, and probably wasn't too good to begin with. It was a vegetable broth, after all. "I'll see if the kitchen can't fix up something better, eh?"

Merlin tentatively smiled and ducked his head. "Thanks," he said, hardly above a whisper. 

"I'll be back - definitely."

Gwaine, with the cup in hand, sauntered to the door and swiftly exited, closing it lightly behind him to ensure Merlin's privacy. As soon as the door clicked, Merlin stiffened, eyes wide. He pushed the blankets off, bolting upright, and then kicked his  gangly  legs free. 

He'd have to move quickly. It was his only chance, the one opportunity he'd waited days for. There was only one way to know for certain if it would work, and though he wasn't looking forward to it, it had to be done.

Merlin's bare feet touched the cold floor, and he stumbled on disused legs before crashing  to his hands and knees. He'd forgotten about his sore ankle.  He didn't bother trying to push himself back up. It would waste time he didn't have. Merlin crawled the rest of the short distance to the fire grate. His heart pounded quickly in his chest. He didn't know how far the kitchens were, or how long Arthur would be gone. Any of the other knights could walk in at any moment, or  Eirny. Merlin couldn't let any of them catch him. He had to do it.

It took him a moment to locate the poker, and when he did it was almost too heavy for him (how sad! pathetic! weak! useless!). He pushed the end deep into the glowing red wood, into the heart of the fire. He knew it would take a moment to heat up, but he wasn't sure he had the time. His heart jittered in his chest like a panicked bird, and his hands wrung the hem of his nightshirt. Merlin's blue eyes darted furtively to the door, then back to the rod, and then to the door again. He licked his dry lips.

The instant he heard approaching footsteps, Merlin yanked his shirt up with one hand and grabbed the iron poker with his other. As the door swung open, Merlin pressed the red-hot tip to the brand above his navel, and couldn't withhold the raw yelp that resulted.

"Merlin?!"

Merlin dropped the poker with a clang, tears streaming, lips pressed tight to suppress his cries of pain. He doubled over and pressed the soft fabric of his shirt to the new burn, but a moment later he was being hauled up by strong hands.

"What have you done?" Gwaine asked, horrified, though he already knew the answer.

"I-is 't g-gone?" Merlin choked out, grabbing Gwaine's sleeve as though it were his lifeline. "G-gone?" Without receiving an answer, his eyes rolled back and he fell limply into Gwaine's embrace, unconscious.

Gwaine sat stunned for a moment before regaining his senses. "Call the physician!" he roared, turning over his shoulder. He gathered Merlin into his arms once he was sure he heard the footsteps receding - Elyan's, he thought, since he was the quickest sprinter - and carried him back to the bed. Of all the times-! He'd only been gone about five minutes, having run into a servant and asked that a hot soup be delivered to Merlin's chambers and turned back. 

He was suddenly aware of someone shaking him, pulling him back from Merlin's still form. Leon struck him across the face, and Gwaine blinked in surprise before jerking out of the senior knight's hold. "What happened?" Leon demanded again. Lancelot and Percival stood behind him, eyes roaming Merlin for any injuries. So  Elyan had run for the physician.

"He -" Gwaine cut off. What was he supposed to say? Merlin burned himself. Yes, that was what had occurred. And Gwaine knew why, too, but would they ask? Understand? Misunderstand? 

At last Lancelot moved forward, apparently too impatient to hear Gwaine's explanation. Somehow he had managed to take the time to observe his surroundings - the poker was still sizzling a bit at one end - and knew the true meaning of the brand. He lifted Merlin's shirt, and lo and behold, the brand had been melted away and replaced with blistering flesh. The poker had  not  been large enough to destroy the entire symbol, but most of the runes had been burned away. Perhaps it was enough to allow Merlin's magic back.

He heard Leon and Percival hiss sympathetically behind him. 

"Arthur isn't going to like this," Leon sighed. 

"No one likes this," Gwaine snapped.

 Eirny arrived  at last with  Elyan following closely behind, carrying her things. She huffed, more than a little winded, and pushed the men out of her way so that she could attend her patient. A new addition to his swathe of wounds had appeared: a burn - self-inflicted, obviously.

Eirny sighed and took a moment to catch her breath. The knight who had been sent to fetch her had had no idea why - he'd simply heard his comrade's desperation and heeded it. So she had quickly gathered a multitude of tonics and ointments and bandages and rushed off. Really all she needed was a simple salve and he'd be fine. 

She frowned and snatched the right bottle from Elyan's hands and set to work. It only took a minute, for it was a rather minor wound. Once it was finished, she righted his shirt and stepped back, motioning for the closest knight - Lancelot - to cover him up. He did so and she relieved Elyan of her medicines. At last she fixated a stern glance on the  guilty-looking group. 

"It's only natural that something like this should happen," Eirny said matter-of-factly, "in his mental state. That brand, a mark of possession, was heavy on his conscience. It's only reasonable that he would want to rid himself of it."

Gwaine could have collapsed with relief from her explanation. It made complete sense, and it had weight behind the words - she was a physician, after all. And it had nothing whatsoever to do with magic.

The others nodded sadly, and Gwaine quickly followed suit. It wasn't going to be him going around raising any doubt. With that, Eirny excused herself, and Elyan offered to carry her things back for her, which she accepted. Gwaine sat heavily in the chair that Arthur had previously occupied, and Lancelot laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"You two should go back and rest," Lancelot said. "You've both earned it."

Leon and Percival nodded, though not in agreement. They acknowledged that there was nothing for them to do here, and that they were tired. It was better for everyone if they did so, so they did. That left  Gwaine and Lancelot with an unconscious Merlin.

Eventually Lancelot left Gwaine's side to take up residence in the chair on the other side of the bed. The latter had yet to stir from his apparent stupor.  Several long minutes passed, and neither spoke. The silence was broken only by a small noise from Merlin, who moved at last. Both men jumped from their seats and hovered over him, prepared to assure him that everything was all right.

Merlin's glassy blue orbs fluttered open, and his gaze  flickered  rapidly between Lancelot and  Gwaine before finally stopping on Lancelot. "Magic," he breathed.

Lancelot and Gwaine both tensed, and were very aware of each other doing so. Thinking quickly, Lancelot said, "It's all right, Merlin. No one can hurt you now. You're safe."

Merlin smiled. "I  c'n feel...my magic...!" With that he pulled an arm free and directed his hand and eyes to the water on the table, intending to levitate it. Lancelot shoved his arm down quickly and strategically placed his hand on Merlin's head so that  Gwaine would not see Merlin's eyes flash gold. Gwaine shifted as though to prevent Lancelot from doing so, but then seemed to freeze  unsurely.

"He's feverish," Lancelot said. "He doesn't know what he's saying."

Gwaine cursed Lancelot's acting skills, for now he couldn't tell whether his friend really was acting to protect Merlin's secret, or was deluding himself into thinking Merlin was delirious. For fear of the latter, Gwaine nodded slowly. 

"Go to sleep, mate," Gwaine said lowly. "You're really not well."

"I  c'n use m' magic!" Merlin exclaimed again, voice  tremoring with emotion. "I can!"

The cup of water suddenly flew across the room and ricocheted off the opposite wall - more than twenty feet away. Gwaine swallowed hard. If Lancelot didn't believe Merlin had magic now, well...That was a bit impossible at this point. Only Arthur could be that dense.

Lancelot was apparently frozen, and made no attempt to stop Merlin's  manic  giggling.  Gwaine thought perhaps Merling was a little bit delirious - otherwise he would not have just revealed himself like that. Gwaine's mind raced, trying to figure out what to say. Should he explain it to Lancelot? Somehow he seemed like the sort of guy to be able to keep a secret, but he was also fiercely loyal to Arthur, who hated magic. What to do? Kill him? No, that'd be suspicious. Lancelot was too careful to just tumble out of a window, wasn't he?

"Magic!" Merlin said again.

This seemed to break the spell that had held Lancelot, who released Merlin and stepped back, gaze snapping up to Gwaine. Merlin had taken to staring at his hand as though it were the most wonderful thing in the world, so Gwaine cautiously raised his own steely eyes. They stared at one another for the better part of a minute.

Then Lancelot sighed, shoulders slumping wearily. Gwaine blinked in surprise, a question forming on his lips. But the knight shook his head and held up a hand. "Gwaine, please," he said. "Under no circumstance must anyone find out about this. Merlin, he - he's always had magic, you see."

Gwaine could have crumpled in relief, but he just  sank into his chair again, shoulders shaking with almost-hysterical laughter. "You knew," he said at last, once he had composed himself. 

Lancelot nodded shortly, then narrowed his eyes. "And you knew?"

"That I did, mate."

Then it was Lancelot's turn to laugh, and Gwaine joined a second after. 

Both instantly sobered up when they realized that half of the furniture in the room was on its way to the ceiling, butterflies of all sorts were spontaneously generating, and a small tree was growing from one of the legs of the upended table. 

"Merlin, no!"

{MERLIN}

Arthur, of course, was very upset about the whole thing once he had been told about it.  Gwaine had stubbornly refused to apologize for it (sincerely, at least), which frustrated the king further. Lancelot calmly stepped in and explained why - Eirny's explanation, that is - Merlin had burned himself. Arthur visibly deflated, looking sad and resigned and perhaps understanding, but ineffectively hid all these emotions by rolling his eyes.

When Merlin next woke it was to see Arthur dozing lightly at his bedside. Lancelot and  Gwaine had been sent to bed - though why they seemed so reluctant to do so was beyond Arthur. In any case, his royal highness won and they left, sharing an unreadable look that Arthur decidedly ignored.

Merlin,  unknowing of the fighting that had occurred not half an hour ago, smiled. His magic thrummed beneath his skin, something he hadn't felt in so long, something he thought he'd never feel again. It was bliss. He felt as though he could get up and do anything at the moment. But he didn't. 

Instead, he studied Arthur. His friend had dark shadows beneath his eyes. For a moment, Merlin contemplated letting him sleep, but then he thought he just looked uncomfortable.

A flash of his eyes later, and Arthur's hand slipped out from underneath his chin, and his head dropped instantly. Arthur jolted awake and straightened himself, then dragged a hand down his face with a quiet groan.

"Rise an' shine, lazy daisy," Merlin smirked, voice hoarse with sleep.

Arthur jumped  again, eyes widening and landing on Merlin, who broke out into a genuine, trade mark smile for the first time since his rescue. The king seemed to forget that he was the king for a moment and grinned just as brilliantly. 

Then Arthur cleared his throat importantly. "Merlin," he said, "it's about time."

"Prat."

"Idiot."

"Dollop-head."

"Clotpole."

"That's my word."

Arthur only smirked in reply, biting the tip of his tongue to hold back his usual banter. The last time he'd pulled the 'I can take it' card Merlin had withdrawn. Whether Merlin remembered it or not was unclear, but he did give Arthur a sort of look, as though he knew. He didn't comment on Arthur's lack of response.

They fell into a comfortable silence, but  as with all silences Merlin felt the need to break it.

"I like  th-th is bed," he said, shifting slightly.

It suddenly clicked in Arthur's head that though Merlin looked and spoke much better than he had been, he was still far from well. He wondered how much of that improvement had come from his episode and burning away the brand. "My bed's better," he said dismissively, almost automatically.

"I wouldn't know," Merlin shot back. "Although I sup-suppose if I had a bed like this, I wouldn't want to wake up every morning, either. N-no wonder you..." Merlin frowned as though he had lost his train of thought, but he seemed to find it just as quickly and continued, "you have to have someone wake you up."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "If you had a bed like mine, you'd never wake up at all, Merlin. Forget being late - you'd never show up."

Merlin tried to scowl, but his lips tightened in a suppressed smile that all too quickly became a broad smile. He laughed, and Arthur had to fight himself very hard to keep his smirk from evolving as well. 

Suddenly Merlin fixated a stare on Arthur, very seriously. The king frowned at the abrupt change in his demeanor. 

"How long has...have you been away from Camelot?" he asked.

Arthur pulled a face. "What's it to you, Merlin?"

"Gwaine said a month," Merlin said, turning his gaze to the canopy above his head. "But that was...days ago."

"I've been away from Camelot for longer."

"Not while you  wuh...were king." Merlin had a troubled expression, and he seemed tired again. 

"Don't worry about it, Merlin," Arthur said, a bit softly.

His friend's blue orbs slid back to him pensively. Even more quietly than Arthur had spoken, he asked, "When are we g-going home?"

Arthur hesitated. The answer to that, obviously, was when Merlin was well enough for the journey. Yes, Merlin had improved, but he was not going anywhere until he had gotten Eirny's leave. How long would that be? How much longer could he stay away from Camelot - both he and Merlin? It might have been easier if Gaius had been able to come, but as he simply could not leave...Arthur considered forcing himself to write another letter to Gaius telling the whole truth. That was a bit selfish and unfair, as Arthur knew that Gaius would be torn between caring for his patients in Camelot and traveling days to comfort his ailing ward - and the king also knew which he would choose. 

But even that would take several days, and Merlin was more than a little homesick, as they all were. Merlin hadn't set foot in Camelot for nearly two months. They were only supposed to be gone for a fortnight at most. And Merlin had spent  nearly all  of that time away being miserable and mistreated - tortured, practically.

It would probably be a great help for Merlin to return home. Gwen would lavish him with all the tender love and caring he needed, as would Gaius. Arthur was quite sure that Merlin had many friends who would stop by and visit him in the physician's quarters while he healed. 

Merlin was unable to make the journey home.

Several seconds had passed as these thoughts raced through Arthur's head, and Merlin swallowed and looked up again. Arthur knew him well enough that he could tell Merlin had read him like a book, and knew that he would not be going home soon. 

"I am sorry," Arthur blurted, and for once he didn't have to inwardly struggle to form those words.

A small smile touched Merlin's lips. " 'S okay."

Arthur nodded slowly, though he was not at all convinced. He had failed Merlin greatly, and it would take a long while before the king could ever trust himself to take Merlin anywhere. He knew that he would never forgive himself. Merlin looked to be drifting off into sleep, so Arthur allowed his thoughts to turn elsewhere. Until:

"...Arthur? "

"Yes, Merlin."

" D'you think...No, never mind."

"Spit it out, _Mer_ lin," Arthur insisted. His voice sounded annoyed - not something he intended. Rather, he wanted to know what Merlin wanted so that he could provide it. Anything to make Merlin feel better, to compensate for everything he had been through .

Merlin, though his eyes were closed, was obviously struggling to make his request. Arthur waited as patiently as he could (being a king, he really didn't have much at all), but as the seconds passed he was getting ready to tell Merlin to just say it. Luckily, before he could, Merlin spoke up, "D'you think that...Well, I suppose you wouldn't really have to think about it...I mean, I suppose I sh-should be asking if...if you maybe found...our trail?"

"Your trail?" Arthur repeated dumbly.

Merlin turned to him and opened his eyes. "When the slavers captured us they m-moved...me and Gwaine by making us walk. We dropped things for you t-to fo-follow."

Arthur nodded emphatically. "Yes, we found that in the morning. Gwaine's ring and gauntlet, and your obvious clumsiness, your belt - somehow, and your stupid scarf. But when we crossed into  Escetir the trail went cold."

Merlin's eyes lit up. "You found it?"

"Yes."

"C-can I have it? If - if you kept it, I mean."

He regarded Merlin for a long moment, wondering what in the hell he was babbling about. It? Kept it? Kept _what_? 

The longer Arthur stared at him the redder Merlin's cheeks flushed, and at last Merlin broke eye contact. He turned his face away, revealing one of the bruises on his throat - the bruises that Arthur wished would hurry up and heal already because looking at them made him feel sick and righteously angry. And then suddenly Arthur knew what Merlin wanted.

"Oh," he uttered. "Your stupid scarf. Yes, I have it."

Merlin turned back and raised his eyebrows. His eyes clearly asked why Arthur had taken so long, and then sharpened sarcastically as Merlin realized that Arthur hadn't realized Merlin was asking after his precious  neckerchief.

Arthur glared defiantly in response to Merlin's silent sarcasm and fished into his pocket. If Merlin wondered why his master was carrying it with him, he didn't ask, although Arthur was fairly certain that Merlin had some sense of an idea. Merlin pushed his blanket down to free his arms, and took the proffered red scarf.

"Thanks," he said. He wound it around his hand and made no move to wrap it in its usual place around his neck. Whether he was too tired to do so or just didn't feel like it Arthur didn't know, but the content look on Merlin's face was enough for him. A little piece of familiarity could go a long way in comfort.

As Merlin finally drifted off into sleep, Arthur pushed himself up from the chair quietly so as not to disturb him. It was Percival's turn to watch over Merlin, so he would go and trade off. But he wouldn't go to bed - not yet, at least. He had an important letter to write.

{MERLIN}

It was the very next day that Eirny suggested Merlin start regaining his strength with gentle exercise. Nothing to aggravate his wounds or hurt him, but enough so that his muscles would stretch and strengthen. It was a bit like training, the knights thought. Often after being injured and returning to the field it was harder for them to return to their capabilities prior to that injury. It took time and effort.

But it would be much harder for Merlin because his muscles had atrophied so much for a longer period of time. Eirny was not exaggerating when she said it would be a slow recovery. But each of the men were willing to help in any way they could, which sometimes included participating in the exercises. It usually got a laugh or two out of Merlin, at any rate, to see Percival trying to touch his toes (he never could) or Gwaine mimicking Arthur's complaining about participating. Even Leon had gotten roped in at some point, and, after underestimating Merlin's growing strength, was pushed to the floor in an exercise that required Merlin to push against something sturdy until it gave way.  Gwaine laughed at Leon's stunned expression for days afterward.

Merlin's appetite improved greatly and rapidly, and in turn he had more energy, which was conserved as he slept and converted into body mass. So he began to gain weight, and he looked almost normal after only a week and a half. He was healthier and happier, and his nightmares became less frequent (though they did not disappear or lessen in intensity).

It was a fortnight after the exercise regiment began that Eirny concluded her last checkup on Merlin. She announced that Merlin was well enough to return to Camelot, although they would need to move slowly to accommodate his pace. Merlin insisted that he would be able to ride like the wind on  BigHeart \-  never mind the fact that as he said this he could hardly move after his day of 'training,' as the knights had taken to calling it. His friends indulged him on the idea as though he were a silly baby brother who claimed he was as strong as his older brothers, who were all already grown up. 

After a quick discussion with the Princess Mithian it was determined that they would move out the next morning. Provisions would be packed, the horses would be prepared, and Merlin would have a new set of clothes because he couldn't very well  ride out in a nightshirt. A rider bearing the news of their imminent arrival would be sent ahead of them. The knights didn't tell Merlin that t hey would be leaving, under Eirny's suggestion. If he knew it would excite him and he would lose sleep. So instead the knights worked him a bit harder than usual so he was more exhausted by the end of it. That would also reduce the chances of his having a nightmare. Once he was sleeping, Elyan, who'd had last watch, went to his own bed for a good night's sleep.

Much to their chagrin, when Gwaine and Arthur went to wake and fetch Merlin, they found him already sitting on the edge of the made bed, dressed in his new clothes, and with one foot tucked halfway into a boot. He glanced up and dead-panned, "Next time you should make sure I'm actually asleep before you start talking about your plans. Can't miss anything with these ears, 'member." So it was that Merlin had known the entire time regardless of the lengths gone to keep it a secret.

Merlin merely rolled his eyes as Gwaine chuckled a bit sheepishly, and that was that. Everyone was ready to go, the horses were laden with supplies, and soon with their riders. Surprisingly enough, Merlin managed to haul himself into the saddle with no help. Only Gwaine had caught a glimpse of molten gold beneath Merlin's lashes, but he, like the others grinned proudly.

Mithian came to bid them farewell, of course, and wished them all well on their trip. Merlin thanked Mithian and expressed his gratitude to Eirny (who wasn't present), and then Arthur gave his customary address as well. He was in her debt, blah blah blah.

At last the group moved out, with Merlin kept in the middle. He sat a bit stiffly in his saddle, but  BigHeart seemed to sense it and moved quite smoothly for a horse. The knights adjusted their horses' paces to accommodate Merlin's as subtly as they could; they all knew how Merlin hated to be fussed over.

The pace was slow, but not as slow as it had been on the way to Nemeth. In fact, it was over double the speed this time around. Merlin kept up a constant chatter, just like on any trip, though when the conversation lulled Arthur always called for a break. Merlin stayed atop his horse when they stopped the first time, obviously at a loss as to how to get himself down without hurting himself. Percival finally stepped in to help, allowing Merlin to use him as an oversized crutch due to his sore muscles. He rested a moment where Lancelot was busy building a fire so that they could cook a bit of lunch, then insisted on helping. 

The knights told Merlin that there was nothing left to be done - Gwaine had fetched the water, Lancelot had started the fire, Elyan had tended the horses, and Arthur and Percival had scouted the perimeter. Merlin pointed out that he could cook, and the idea was met with very little resistance. They had all, even though none of them voiced it, missed Merlin's stew. 

Merlin fell asleep waiting for the water to boil, head on his drawn-up knee. No one had the heart to wake him, leaving Lancelot to cook. So in the end they didn't get any of Merlin's stew, much to everyone's disappointment. Their moods were much improved several hours later at dinner, when Merlin managed to stay awake to complete his task.

It was only two days into the journey that it became apparent to everyone but Merlin that he might not have been ready to leave the comfort of Nemeth Castle. Despite their gentle riding and frequent breaks, Merlin only seemed to be more and more exhausted and sore as the days dragged on. They let him sleep as much as possible, but it didn’t seem to be enough even when he didn't have nightmares, and they couldn't give him more or they would never make it back to Camelot. Arthur considered turning around, but he knew that Merlin would pitch a fight. He suggested it aloud one night anyway, and received such a glare from Merlin that Arthur thought even Gaius would quail under it.

A journey by horseback from Nemeth to Camelot took about five days, normally. At their rate it would be eight days, but as Merlin's condition continued to worsen that could be extended. It was stressful all around.

Nevertheless, they pushed forward, keeping a faithful, constant watch on the weary warlock. It felt as though, for the first time in a long while, fate was on their side. There were no bandit attacks, nor mercenaries, nor sorcerers, nor storms. It was as though some divine power wanted to  hurry  Merlin home just as much as they did.

When they finally crossed the border into Camelot, it was five days after they had left. If nothing happened, they would reach the citadel in two days. No - Merlin insisted on going around the Valley of the Fallen Kings rather than take a shortcut through it. Giving in to Merlin's 'superstitious, hard-headed, peasant ways', Arthur and Leon devised a new route that would add another day. So the journey would turn about to be eight days in total.

On the sixth morning, Arthur and the others bolted upright at the sound of a shout - only to realize almost immediately it was Merlin. They sheathed their swords quickly, and, since it was dawn, decided to go about getting ready. Merlin had woken from his nightmare, whatever it had been (he obstinately refused to divulge any of them), and had taken solace in Gwaine's arms as usual. No one had commented on the several occasions Merlin had groggily woken and shuffled over to Gwaine, wherever he slept, and laid down by him to sleep. Gwaine was always welcoming.

But there was something different on that morning. At first the knights assumed that Merlin's nightmare was more vivid, more terrifying - or something like that, because Merlin was shaking  almost convulsively  and conforming his body to  Gwaine's. But when  Gwaine passed a hand over Merlin's head he announced that the manservant had a fever. 

Arthur wearily dragged a hand down his face, and did not miss the look of pity and exhaustion that flashed over his men's. Lancelot pulled out a spare cloth and poured water from the skin over it, then walked over and handed it to Gwaine, who took it and mopped Merlin's face and neck with it. 

It was decided that any further delay would only serve to the worsening of Merlin. Since they were not far from the Valley, the route was altered so that they would pass through it despite Merlin's wishes not to do so. In his state he probably wouldn't even notice. When breakfast was ready, Gwaine managed to bring Merlin to consciousness, and he seemed lucid enough. 

But then he started babbling about magic, and Arthur gave him a wary look. Lancelot and  Gwaine both tried to shush him, shooting worrisome looks toward Arthur, for some reason unbeknownst to the (actually quite affronted) king. Did they think he would be angry with Merlin? He was the victim of magic, obviously. In his fevered state he was talking about the things that had happened to him, he was sure.

Arthur wasn't sure he wanted to listen to any more of it, although all Merlin was getting out was something along the lines of, "Magic! Feel magic... C'n you feel  't?"

Gwaine extricated Merlin from his arms and laid him down on the bed roll, whispering something in his ear. Merlin fell silent, but only for a moment. When Lancelot returned to his side and pressed the cold cloth to his head, he cried out in distress and batted his friends' hands away. They backed away, hands held up in a surrendering gesture, and Merlin went still again. A moment later he reached up and shoved the wet rag off of his head, then pulled his blanket up to cover all but his black locks sticking every which way. Arthur could make out the shuddering from across the camp.

"I don't think we're going anywhere, Princess," Gwaine said, turning to look over his shoulder. 

The king made a show of rolling his eyes, of course, but inside he was feeling overwhelmingly sorry for Merlin. On top of being sick - again - he was disoriented - or hallucinating - or something. Elyan took over the task of breakfast making, and Leon and Percival attended the horses. They all moved automatically.

Arthur went to sit by the fire near Merlin. Gwaine was silent at his side, and Lancelot had left for more water. He could hear his manservant muttering something, but it was too quiet for him to hear. He glanced back at Gwaine - and it was obvious that whatever Merlin was saying he could hear quite clearly, and it was greatly affecting him. A horrified Gwaine pressed a hand over his mouth, brow furrowed and eyes wide. He stared down at the shivering form.

Arthur, heart seizing painfully, moved closer. As he neared, Merlin's words, intermitted by deep moans and quiet grunts, became clear:

"St-stop, stop, please...hurts -  't hurts!...Please...please d-don't...M-magic - can't... ! Ah...T-take it  ou-t -tuh...please!"

Unable to listen  any more, Arthur reached forward and shook Merlin by the shoulder. Gwaine noticed the movement but was too late to stop him. Merlin screamed - positively shrieked! - as though Arthur had burned him, writhing underneath his blanket. His blanket fell from him as he scrambled away in  terror, revealing a wild, traumatized expression that tore at Arthur's very soul. 

Merlin's hand flew up, palm facing Arthur with fingers splayed. If the king hadn't known it was a purely defensive, harmless posture on Merlin's part, he would have thought Merlin was about to send him flying with magic. Gwaine tensed at Arthur's side in horror. He couldn't stop what was going to happen - Arthur was going to find out the hard way about Merlin's magic - Merlin was going to attack Arthur with magic, and Arthur would never forgive him, and -

Merlin dropped his hand just as suddenly, his terror never diminishing. "Arthur!" he cried.

Arthur moved forward to help him as he fell over onto his side. Gwaine was frozen in relief.

As the king lifted Merlin (He really was burning up!) gently, Merlin seemed to shrink into himself. " 'M sorry," he said shakily. "Sorry, sorry."

"Don't be stupid, Merlin," Arthur said tenderly, half-dragging him back onto the pallet. 

"I did- didn't know, I th-thought," Merlin gave a violent shudder, "you wuh-were g-going to -" He broke, apparently unable to finish the sentence. Arthur placed an understanding hand on his shoulder, hoping that it would calm him.

"Go to sleep, Merlin," he said. "We'll wake you when it's time to go."

It seemed to work. Merlin, making an attempt to breathe evenly, closed his eyes. 

Gwaine exhaled slowly. "That bastard...violated him," he growled.

Arthur regarded him. "We already knew that," he said averting his eyes to his hands in his lap. "The physician said so."

"I know."

"We can't stay here. Merlin needs Gaius."

"I know."

"We'll have to carry him as he's sleeping. I didn't want to do it before, but there's little choice at this point," Arthur sighed wearily. 

Gwaine nodded. "After we break fast, then."

"Yes."

{MERLIN}

Merlin's fever hadn't decreased over the next few days, but it hadn't increased, either. Most of the time he was sleeping, and the knights took advantage of it by strapping him to  BigHeart as they had done before. Luckily Merlin didn't have any more panic attacks, but his nightmares did not cease. Hopefully  Gauis would be able to do something about that.

At any rate, they made sure that when the city walls loomed over them  at about midday  they woke Merlin. He was groggy and disoriented at first, and they had to stop the procession for a moment so he could get his bearings. When they pointed out the castle ahead of them, he woke fully, and they were graced with a tired but brilliant smile. They were finally home.

An hour's ride later they had reached the citadel, and in the courtyard stood their welcome. Obviously their late arrival had been announced. As they approached the three waiting figures, it became clear who they were: Guinevere, Gaius, and -

"Mother!" Merlin exclaimed. 

He pulled his horse up short, slightly irritating her, but at that precise moment Merlin couldn't bring himself to care. He made to jump off, but forgot that his legs were lashed to the saddle. With a frustrated growl he reached down and pulled the straps. By that time Gwaine had dismounted and reached up to help him down, and Hunith had already run three-quarters the length of the courtyard. By the time Merlin had been placed on his feet, all he had to do was spread his arms because his mother flung herself at him, tears pouring.

"My son!" she said breathlessly, clutching him tightly. Merlin held her just as tightly, burying his face into the crook of her shoulder. 

Stable hands appeared and took the horses to the stable, leaving the group standing around. Arthur first embraced Gwen, who kissed his cheek and then went to her brother. Once it became clear that the knights were all in one piece, she went to Merlin. He was leaning heavily on his mother, and though he wasn't exactly heavy Hunith was beginning to strain. 

Leon tentatively broke the reunion. "He's a fever," he said. "We should get him to Gaius' chambers first."

Hunith and Gwen nodded, and his mother reluctantly pulled away from the hug. Merlin quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, smiling a watery smile. Gaius had waited by the steps for them patiently, observing the way Merlin walked - more like stumbled - with a limp, the obviously new clothes and boots, and his slightly hunched demeanor. The second letter Arthur had sent to him, requesting that he contact Hunith, had also included a brief, more truthful rendition of all that had happened. Gaius wanted to drop everything and go to Nemeth, but of course he couldn't. Arthur had assured him that he would bring Merlin back no matter what, so he had waited.

The time for waiting was over.

Merlin had at last reached him, and he released his mother, whom he had been using as a crutch, to throw his arms around his mentor. Gaius had already prepared himself to take Merlin's weight - he had known Merlin would hug him despite being in no shape to do so. After a moment of patting his thin back, Gaius told him it was time to let up and go to his chambers for some much needed rest.

It was a testament to how tired Merlin was that he didn't argue. Gaius shooed the knights and king to their rooms, promising that they could come and visit on the morrow.

{MERLIN}

Two months later saw Merlin in Arthur's room, tediously polishing a pair of boots. The king was seated at his desk, poring over several documents dealing with taxes in the realm. Gwen had gone to the lower town some hours before, and how both men envied her. Merlin, being oh so considerate, refrained from speaking so as not to distract Arthur from his boredom.

A rap at the door, and Arthur nearly jumped in excitement. But before he could bid the knocker to enter, the door swung open and Gwaine sauntered in. "Princess," he greeted, flipping his hair. 

"Gwaine," Arthur said, face falling unenthusiastically.

"Ah, Merlin!" Gwaine said, from then on ignoring the king. "Just the man I was looking for."

"Have you been chased out of the tavern again?" Merlin teased.

Gwaine feigned hurt, but the humor never left his face. "Why are you polishing the Princess' boots when you could be outside?"

Merlin turned to glance out the window. The sun was shining, but it was not too hot. "Well, I do have to pick herbs for Gaius later."

"Great, I'll go with you."

It was obviously a play to get on Arthur's nerves, but Merlin also knew that Gwaine meant it. Under the pretense of keeping him safe as he 'daintily picked flowers,' as Arthur put it, Merlin and he went far out into the woods to relax. Merlin often told him stories of his magical adventures or showed off pretty lights, generally just impressing Gwaine. Lancelot and Gaius both disapproved, but relented. 

Merlin always pulled a face whenever anyone relented without much of a fight. He knew they let him have his way more often because of what had happened to him. He wasn't exactly complaining about that, though. He was over the whole ordeal. Sure, he still had nightmares, but he had nightmares about lots of things, especially  concerning Arthur and Destiny. It was no new thing. 

Only Arthur and Gwaine seemed to act as though nothing had happened.

Which was why Arthur said, "Gwaine, if there's nothing you need, please go and perform the duties you are skiving."

Gwaine steadily locked gazes with the king. "I've nowhere to be."

"Go to the tavern. Merlin and I are busy. Well - I'm busy, and Merlin's daydreaming."

Merlin looked affronted. "I'm not daydreaming, I'm thinking. Something you're clearly incapable of doing. It's a good job one of can, or nothing would get done."

"Don't hurt yourself, Merlin," Arthur said dismissively, hardly sparing any attention to him. Rather, he focused on his staring match with Gwaine. "Don't you have anyone else to bother? Percival? Lancelot, maybe?"

Gwaine flipped his hair again. "Bother? If you're bothered, I can't see why. I'm a pure joy to be around, Princess."

"Merlin, kindly show Gwaine the door."

Merlin, without moving from his spot, pointed to the door.

"Merlin!"

"Yes, Sire?" Merlin asked innocently.

Arthur gave him a glare from his table. For a long moment, no one moved nor spoke. Then Arthur pushed his chair back and stood, stretching his arms over his head. "I'm fancying a walk. Come on, Merlin, Gwaine. You two can accompany me. Merlin, you can pick your little flowers along the way."

Gwaine and Merlin exchanged a mischievous look as he passed them. Today, Arthur would be the clumsy one.

End


End file.
